


OVERHEAD

by howtheuniverseworks



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Might contain smut, OT5, Pining, emphasis on Might
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 55,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25812577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howtheuniverseworks/pseuds/howtheuniverseworks
Summary: The rich spoiled brat’s worst nightmare has come true. Harry is forced to help out in an orphanage to appease his father for his misbehavior. What Harry has expected to be a breeze turns out to be a full-blown hurricane when he clashes head to head with a blue-eyed, foul-mouthed orphan named Louis.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
> This book idea came to me at half past three in the morning of Aug 7th 2020. I haven't been able to get it off of my mind since, hence . . .   
>   
> 1.) This is an **_AU fanfiction_**. Any similarities and resemblances to real life events are purely coincidental. None of it happened in real life, not a single thing written here is real.  
> 2.) Orphanages are different for every country/city, so I took the common denominator out of all of them and infused it into this book.  
> 3.) This, in no way, belittles or glorifies the behaviors of the characters portrayed—whether it be the caregivers of the orphanage, the children themselves, Landon Styles, Gemma, the boys, and just basically every single character. This is _fiction_.  
> 4.) This will be a slow burn romance and updates will be a bit slow because I want to be as thorough as possible on describing the thought processes and actions of each character. Plus, I want to squeeze the story into a maximum of nine chapters. A feat, I know.  
> 5.) I'm writing this as I go, and although I have the plotline figured out, surprise scenes may contain triggers. If there are any, trigger warnings will be written at the beginning of the chapter.  
> 6.) I edit my work from time to time (e.g. adding pictures, easing the flow of the convo, correcting grammatical errors etc.) so some chapters might not be the same way you remember it. 
> 
> Main inspirations for the chapters:  
> Grace - Lewis Capaldi  
> Yellow Lights - Harry Hudson  
> Over My Head - The Fray  
> Bones - JC Stewart  
>  **More rambling:** There are _too many_ songs to mention, honestly. I might narrow them down when I finish, or add some more. Who knows? Also, this is my first attempt at writing a book based on Larry but heck am I having fun with it.
> 
> Lastly, hope you enjoy reading!

There is an endless string of profanities running from Harry’s mouth, saturating the cool, summer breeze streaming in from his open balcony. He’s upset at the unexpected turn of events. 

The benefit organized in celebration of his father’s latest acquisition had gone to shit, much to his delight and the older man’s chagrin. He chuckles at the memory of the look on his father's face when he realized that the champagne passed around his guests had been tampered with by his only son.

Heavily intoxicated colleagues littered the whole ballroom floor, providing A-grade entertainment for Harry as he watched them slowly lose their bearings. Mr. Kavinsky, an internationally renowned wine connoisseur was then trying his luck on a very married Mrs. Foster right in front of her husband. 

Not only that, some of the most esteemed guests had resorted to measuring dicks figuratively and literally, being raunchy and rowdy during the party.

Harry was sure they would wake up with no memory of the night before—well, maybe the pounding headache and nausea being the only remnants of their wild nights—but his father wasn’t about to let that go with a nimble slap on the wrist. 

He huffs as the watch’s lock clicks. Harry’s not much of an accessory guy, and so he looks at it with wonder, staring at the object that no matter how small, screamed a message so gigantic: _privilege_. He inspected the jewelry, having gotten used to the feeling of it wrapped around his wrist. More used to the fact that his father insists that only the most expensive and noticeable things cover his son’s skin. 

Unlike the great Mr. Landon Styles, Harry is more of a you-only-live-once type of person. It's an easy concept for him to live up to—having his fun and getting out of trouble as many times as he gets into it. 

That has always been a point of disagreement between the two. 

Landon is a man of discipline and hard labor, always believing that the only time to stop working is when one is reclined six feet under the ground. Harry always gave him shit for it, finding his passion for buying and selling companies a bit overrated. He never liked the business, never showed any interest towards it, which is probably why his sister, Gemma, is the one being groomed to take over the multi-million enterprise.

Harry just considers himself a free spirit with a nomadic mind, a bird that could not be caged into submission or docility. This belief effortlessly pushes the agitation back into his veins. His father had taken it upon himself to exile Harry into a ‘meditative and enlightening break’ which were just prettier usage of words as opposed to ‘punishment.’ 

Landon has made sure to make it as awful as he could, aware that boarding schools and banishing Harry to other continents don’t seem to do the work. This time, he’s decided to be thorough, made it sure Harry was getting the reformation he needed. 

“Don’t be late,” he warns Harry as the younger Styles fixes his hair in front of a huge pentagon mirror, the golden lining of it shining as light bounces from every corner. 

Landon’s eyes are stern, almost as if demanding attention and respect, but Harry had lived with those eyes for nineteen years. He considered himself quite immune to it, so he just rolls his and huffs.

Their relationship was admittedly unhealthy, as most father-son relationships are, Harry muses. He likes to mess with his father for no apparent reason, or none that he would admit to anyway. He found great joy in seeing the old man fume at his antics. There was no other way to spend his youth, he was convinced.

“Me, late? Never,” he retorts. He puts a black muscle tee that hangs just an inch below his jean-clad bum. 

Landon’s eyes narrow. “You know what’ll happen if you mess up or do anything stupid.” The threat in his voice was not unnoticed by Harry. Of course, he knows what would happen, his father had made it exceptionally clear during their discussion just that morning—all of his inheritance, stripped. Zip. Zero. Nada. 

He considers it for a moment, just a little screw up to infuriate the old man some more, but decides against it. He wouldn’t put it past his father to be lenient so soon after that spectacle of a party. He’d just have to stick it out, however torturous it would be. 

“Change into something more decent,” Landon demands, giving Harry a once over one last time before he leaves the room.

Harry grunts, rolling his eyes heavenward for the nth time today before dragging his feet towards his closet. He’s prided himself on his fashion choices, some pieces more expensive than the clothes his sister wears, but he’d always argued that quality will cost more in exchange for years of durability. If there was something he openly indulges in, it was the cloths he put on his back. 

He pulls one black cashmere sweater out from a rack, ogling it and debating whether it would be a good choice for today’s activities.

It's a bit big on him, he realizes right off the bat, despite not having worn it yet. With a last quick glance at the piece, he shrugs it on, right over the muscle tee. He's going to chuck it as soon as they get there anyway.

  


Harry sips from his water bottle as the car enters a gated house. He notes how the gate is much taller than he is with multiple vertical bars, reminding himself of prison, and yet the woman holding it seems to treat it with such care. 

Once through, they go around the bend, an old fountain in the center of the tiny roundabout with chipped paint and moldy water. He grimaces at the sight. 

“I’ll be right here,” Ed, his appointed driver and chaperone, says as he turns the engine off. 

Harry catches his gaze through the rear-view mirror. “I’ll wire you a thousand,” he says in all seriousness. To his surprise, the bald man chuckles, no trace of relenting on his face. “Two thousand, then. A day,” Harry bargains one more time.

“Go, now,” Ed tells him, unlocking the doors by poking a button on the control panel. 

Harry groans. It was bad enough that Ed’s resorted to using the child lock feature on him. Now, he actually refuses any sort of bribe to save Harry from this. 

Ed exits the car, heads to Harry’s side, and pulls the door open. Harry steps out, one leg after the other in a painfully slow manner, his sweater already off and left on the car’s seat. 

The woman who had been holding the gate approaches them, this smile on her lips one Harry could only describe as phony as it didn’t reach her eyes. He smirks to himself, knowing the woman was probably thinking he shouldn’t be there with the rest of the children, all bare tattooed arms, curls in disarray, and sunglasses perched on the top of his head. 

“Hi, Harry,” she greets. 

He uses that moment to take her in, her blonde and graying hair tied with an elastic in a low ponytail, her green eyes that almost matches his, the pin on her shirt that says ‘ _Patricia_ ’ with the words ‘head volunteer’ right under it. She must be in her 50s, Harry guesses.

“Patricia,” he returns, inwardly patting himself on the back when the smile she gives him becomes genuine, clearly appreciating the casual acknowledgment. 

“Please extend our thanks to your father,” she starts, eyes shining with gratitude as she takes Harry’s hand in hers, “his donation was a great help to our foundation. The children will be happy.”

“Of course,” Harry answers without missing a beat. 

Of course, his father had sent him to one of those institutions he himself finances. God forbid Harry slips and misbehaves and have it plastered on the front page of the newspapers. 

She gestures behind her, to the big wooden door painted a mahogany so deep that it almost looks red in the sunlight, reminding Harry of that horror movie with demons behind red doors. He shudders.

“Shall we?” She asks him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Harry wordlessly gestures for her to lead the way, throwing a grimace to Ed over his shoulder when he was certain Patricia’s back was turned. Ed only laughs and waves him away. With a huff, Harry steps into the house, unaware of the eyes that had been trained on him since he'd climbed out of the car.

The very first thing he notices upon entering is the scent of pineapple—strong and sweet—bringing him back to his earliest childhood memory of it attacking his tongue, the discomfort lasting for days on end. He wouldn’t have recognized it if it hadn’t been his least liked fruit. 

He purses his lips, finding more and more reasons to detest this exile. He's nineteen, for fuck’s sake, and already he’s being subjected to this. He should be out there, exploring the world, entertaining himself with the places he’s yet to visit and people he’s yet to meet.

He lets his eyes wander as Patricia shows him around, her voice effectively tuned out when the environment takes him aback. He sees children, most of them ranging from eight to thirteen years old but some, a good 20% in estimation, are younger. 

They're all doing various activities. Some are drawing, some painting, others playing board games or tag. It's a flurry of movements inside the house. 

Harry moves back just as one kid slips past him, chased by another, both of them running around with giggles before one caregiver reprimands them. With disappointment on their faces and slumped shoulders, Harry watches as they sit together on the floor instead, pencil and paper on both hands.

Patricia leads him into the kitchen and the much potent aroma of the fruit wafts through his nose. Two more women are there, almost the same height, both brunettes. 

When the one on the left turns around, her apron dusted with flour, Harry realizes they’re twins. _Twins!_ Identical, at that. An odd thrill courses through him, not having met any twins before despite his wide network. 

They both send a smile his way, and Harry marvels at how even their dimples are matching.

“Harry, these are Aurelie and Edelie,” Patricia smiles fondly at both of the women, her laugh lines showing. Then she turns to him, “this is Harry, he’ll be keeping us company.”

“Hello,” they say at the same time before breaking into chuckles when Harry’s eyes widen in amazement. His lips curl up on their own, his own dimple popping out.

“They came from here,” Patricia says, to which the twins nod in unison. “They’d been volunteering ever since they were old enough to help out.”

“We love the place,” Aurelie waves a hand in the air, and Harry notes the accent, a faint French tainted with the northern British. “Spent almost our entire childhood here. It’d be rude not to come back,” she says, a hint of humor in her voice.

“That,” Edelie agrees, her voice lower than her twin’s, “and because Patty here wouldn’t survive without us,” she teases, returning the fond smile directed at them. 

Patricia only shakes her head in response, the adoration on her face not disappearing as she ushers Harry to another part of the huge house. 

She begins talking and Harry tunes her out again, his thoughts telling him that for now, the only thing worth his time were the set of adult identical twins in the kitchen. 

He finds the idea of having a twin to be terrific, to have a literal duplicate of himself running around with the same everything. Soulmates were a different thing of course, he muses, but still marvelous nevertheless. It's corny, and he would never admit it to anyone, but he believed in the idea. The world is far too big, far too densely populated, for a person to be alone. Somewhere out there, either on the other side of the world or one’s next-door neighbor, is one’s other half. 

He's in the middle of weighing the slim chances of finding his when he becomes alert at the feeling of being watched. The hairs on his nape stand up in attention, his body stiffening and becoming more guarded. It isn’t Patricia, as she was still blabbering about the building and its history.

Harry had just stepped near the stairs when the feeling suddenly increased tenfold. He looks around, his skin prickling either in excitement or anxiety—he isn't sure—but it definitely is something. 

Harry freezes when he locks eyes with a guy about his age, the only one he’d seen so far despite the many occupants of this building. 

The male is tall, at least he appeared to be, leaning against the wooden railing headed up to the second floor, a mere fifteen feet away from Harry. Harry couldn’t normally tell eye color from that distance, but the boy’s eyes were so strikingly blue that it would be impossible to not notice it—colored like the sky had decided to take permanent residence in them, looking down at him. And his hair, his hair is brown and coiffed up, messy but still looking like it had been styled that way, some of them peeking out from the back of his neck. 

In his hand is a book opened in the middle. Before Harry could get a peek of what the guy had been reading, it shuts with a thud, and the guy keeps it pressed to his side with the cover purposefully angled away from prying eyes. 

The corners of his lips point down as he stares at Harry, an uncordial look on his face that seems to highlight his facial features more—high cheekbones and thin lips that screamed ‘unfair’ at how it fit right in on his overall look. 

Harry is snapped out of his reverie when Patricia reappears in front of him, eyes worried. “What’s wrong, dear?” 

Harry looks to his left, expecting to find the teen male there, but is instead met with nothing. He frowns at the thought of the guy leaving without introducing himself. Harry's hated nothing more than terrible manners. 

“Is he a volunteer here too?”

Patricia frowns in confusion. “Who?”

Harry glances at the empty space again, the outline of the male still fresh in his mind as he tries to figure out how he’s moved so swiftly and without detection. “The one who was standing there, holding a book.” 

Harry tires to recall the guy’s clothing but could come up with nothing. He curses himself for being too enthralled by his face. “Fair-skinned, blue eyes, brown hair, about my age,” he adds.

Patricia’s eyes light up in recognition but she doesn’t produce a fond smile like she did when they met with the twins. “He’s not a volunteer. He’s been here the longest out of all the children,” she explains, already turning on her heel and ready to resume the tour to the children’s quarters. 

Harry falls into step beside her. “Well?” He prompts. “Does he have a name?”

She looks at him, puzzled, with a hint of suspicion on her face. Harry schools his to look like he's just mildly curious. It seems to have worked as Patricia shrugs almost imperceptibly and begins her tour again. “Louis. His name is Louis.”

 _Louis,_ Harry repeats in his head, his mouth moving on its own to test how the name would roll off his tongue. He shakes the thought off of his mind, his long legs catching up to Patricia’s strides as she rats on and on.

 _Louis needs to learn some manners,_ he notes in his head.

  


That run-in with Louis stayed in the farthest corner of Harry’s mind, even when he’d been asked to help with preparing the snacks of the children—a luxury that the institution had now because of his father’s graciousness. Or so Patricia had said. 

One more thing he’s found out today is his lack of talent in the kitchen, as he messed up a thing as simple as making homemade bread. Failure after failure and a hard round of teasing from the twins had made up most of his afternoon. 

He's frustrated, and he’s made it his mission to practice when he gets home. He didn’t like the feeling of failing at anything, most especially breadmaking. 

He’s sat down on a wooden chair, ankles crossed as he watches the twins get to work. "Maybe I’m right and it has to be that way,” he suggests, refusing to admit defeat.

Aurelie’s tinkling laughter fills the small space. “Harry, dear, you’ll have to actually bite through the bread to enjoy it.”

Harry flushes at the reminder of his rock hard creation. It isn't his fault, he convinces himself. Maybe the ingredients were expired, or the oven was actually dysfunctional. He makes a mental note to ask his father to donate a brand-new one. It couldn’t possibly be because he's bad at something. 

Edelie took pity on him and coos. “Don’t be too hard on him, sister. The poor kid is trying.” Harry juts his chin out at Aurelie, feeling more confident now that someone is on his side. “Failing,” Edelie adds, “but trying.” She finishes with a chuckle at Harry’s betrayed face.

“Just you wait,” Harry playfully counters. 

They finish preparing the food. With a tray nestled on each pair of arms, they head out to the common area and set the food down on the middle table, a deep mahogany that matches the main door. Aurelie heads to the kitchen to fetch some plastic cups and the drinks. She returns and places them on the table as well. 

The children need not be called as they each take their own pieces and retire to their spots, some even being hesitant on taking one. Harry’s crouching down, munching on his share of bread.

“Luna,” Edelie calls softly, once, then a second time. Harry follows her gaze, settling on a young girl who he guesses is at least three years old. Her bright, doe eyes find Edelie’s face. 

The older woman beckons her over and she follows, her plush doll trailing behind her feet. Edelie gestures to the food. Luna drops beside him almost like a toy with a drained out battery, messily landing on her bum. Harry snorts. 

“Quite a landing you got there," he mutters. Harry's amused eyes are trained on the little girl as she reaches forward and unknowingly takes the largest piece in the pile. When she settles back to her place, her head darts to both sides, almost like she’s looking for something. Harry jolts when her small hand crumples the fabric of his tee. And just like that, she starts her quiet nibbling. 

Aurelie smiles at the sight. “She’s a shy one, barely talks." 

Harry assesses the child again, seeing her pay no mind to her surroundings. He observes the other children, most of them were keeping to themselves, and a few had made friends with the others. There's a noticeable difference between those who were alone and those who weren’t. He doesn't want to put much thought into it, but he couldn’t help himself. 

This environment is new to him, and he has little to no clue as to how anything works or what to expect. Growing up, Harry had always been this social butterfly, a trait that has proven to be beneficial for him as the web of people he knew grew and grew, and so did the amount of favors waiting to be granted to get into his and his father’s good graces.

He’d never been alone, never _felt_ alone, not when a guard always shadows him wherever he goes. Not when his house is always flooded by people—gardeners, maids, security, cooks, the list is endless. Harry would be the last to know how it felt to be alone because he never was. 

Before he could ponder about it some more, his eyes catch a moving figure. He turns his head just in time to watch the person, _Louis_ , walk over to them, the frown on his face still. 

“Louis,” Edelie greets curtly, and Aurelie smiles up at him. 

He doesn’t respond to them in any way. In fact, he doesn’t even look at anyone as he wordlessly scoops Luna up in his arms and settles her on his hip, the little girl smiling up at him brightly. She nuzzles his neck, continuing to eat her bread and dropping crumbs on his shoulder. 

Louis still doesn’t say anything as he turns on his heel and heads into the kitchen with a bouncing Luna clinging onto him. Harry is immediately on his feet, following the two. Once there, Louis sets Luna down on one of the highchairs just in time to see her take a huge bite off her food. He softly bops the tip of her nose before sitting across her and pulling his book out, unaware of Harry.

“You didn’t introduce yourself,” Harry says, the accusation in his voice showing through although he hadn’t meant it to. 

He uncrosses his arms and slips his hand in his pockets.

Louis looks back at him for a moment, his posture relaxed and uncaring, before turning his head again, refocusing on his book. Harry is appalled, _offended_ , at Louis' behavior. 

His eyes harden. “A lack of manners doesn’t make you look cool.”

“Too much of it doesn’t either,” Louis bites back, the tone of his voice unusually calm despite the heavy drip of venom from his words. 

“Doesn’t mean you should—” 

Harry is interrupted by Louis’ sigh. “Take your business elsewhere, will you? The little princess is eating, and the sound of your voice is interrupting my peace.”

Harry’s mouth drops open. It's so rarely that he meets someone so rude that it t takes him by surprise. Red-hot irritation boils inside him. He hadn’t even talked to this guy before this moment. He doesn't understand where the hostility is coming from. 

“You're being awfully rude—”

“Go bother someone who’d actually listen,” Louis interrupts him again, flipping a page, the flatness of his speech a telltale of his boredom.

Harry's mouth is agape. He stomps his foot, way past the point of aggravation. He spins on his heel, briskly walking towards the twins to report Louis’ unreasonable behavior. It's unacceptable! Truly, completely, totally unacceptable for a person to behave that way—untriggered at that! 

Edelie meets his eyes before he even arrives, her brows raised at the sight of Harry’s flared nostrils. “You’ve met Louis.” It isn’t phrased like a question, and the way that Edelie had said it meant it isn't an uncommon experience with the boy.

“Met?” Harry repeats with incredulity in his wide eyes, “I’ve _sparred_ with him.” It had been a spar, alright, maybe even more. Louis had straight up been waging war on poor Harry. 

“Calm down,” Aurelie approaches him with her arms outstretched. Once close enough, she engulfs Harry in a hug, rubbing his back soothingly. 

It mildly eases Harry’s irritation, but not so much that he’s willing to forget the unjust treatment from the boy in the kitchen. He fumes in anger again, pulling back from Aurelie as he plans his revenge.

It isn't right to just get back at him. No, Harry is going to get even. 

  


Unfair. That's definitely a word Harry could take from all of this. It had been two days and Louis hadn’t left his room during afternoon snack time, or showed himself to Harry specifically aside from taking his meals. 

It has been bothering him—not because he wants to see the guy, no, but because he had this masterplan all ready for execution yet the subject of it is not even around to begin with.

He has been buzzing the past few days with the thought of earning a point against Louis. Although it makes him look like a vengeful person, he couldn’t help but rise up to the challenge. He isn’t vindictive, at least he didn’t believe he was, but he couldn’t just let the mistreatment pass, could he? 

Louis needs a taste of his own medicine, and Harry would have him drown in it. He has to be discreet about it too, he reminds himself. He hasn’t forgotten that this whole thing is his supposed punishment for that disaster of a ball. A small screw up, perhaps a little bird chirping of his misdoings could cost him his inheritance. That's why he’d planned everything down to the dot. 

His heart nearly jumps out of his chest when he sees Louis descending the steps, presumably on the way to pick Luna up again. The heavy thumping of the organ echoes in his ears as he set his marks.

He heads into the kitchen, a drink in his hand, already expecting to see Louis and Luna there. And he's right, they are seated the same way they as before with Luna gobbling up the snack in her tiny hands. 

“Louis,” Harry starts, “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

Louis doesn’t even bother to look at him. He adjusts himself in his chair, bringing his leg up and tucking his foot under his right thigh, ignoring Harry all together. 

Harry clenches his jaw, pressed at being on the receiving end of such hostility. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, but mostly just to have something to fill his insides rather than the growing dislike towards Louis. He needed to focus.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he exhales, forcing the words through his teeth, “I’m sorry for behaving the way I did—”

“God, man,” Louis huffs, “don’t you ever shut your mouth?”

Harry’s knuckles have turned white, the urge to punch Louis in the mouth so close to the surface. It takes a lot of effort and deep, steadying breaths to rein it in. He's just a breath away from losing it when he hears something. 

Marco and Callum, the kids who had been playing tag when he first arrived, are engaged in the game again. He looks behind him, seeing that the boys are heading his way now, sprinting. It's now or never. Just as Marco steps into the threshold of the kitchen, Harry puts himself in the way as innocently as he could, making the child bump against him. 

Harry shoots forward, spilling the contents of his very full cup into Louis. 

The boys gasp in mortification at what they had caused, walking up in front of Louis with their heads down, muttering their apologies with their heads hung low. Without another word, they scurry away, leaving Harry, Louis and Luna in the kitchen.

Harry is fighting the smirk on his lips upon seeing Louis’ stiff body. The guy stands up, setting his half-drenched book onto the table with his jaw ticking in irritation. His lips purse tightly together.

“Sorry _man_ ,” Harry says, emphasizing that word when he remembers Louis calling him that, “these kids play hard.”

It didn’t take a genius to understand that Harry’s words had double meaning, Louis at the very least must have noticed the edge on Harry’s voice when he apologized, his gut telling him that not only did Louis know about his insincerity, but also that he meant to spill his drink on the guy. 

Harry sees Louis’ face go blank, completely devoid of any emotion, reminding Harry of a calm before the storm. Without warning, Louis pulls his wet top over his head, leaving his bare torso available for anyone to see, most especially Harry. He isn't lanky, Harry realizes, seeing small hints of muscles in the right places.

Louis’ chest is glistening with the little moisture left from the spilled drink then he wipes at it, drying his hand on his discarded shirt. He turns, presenting Harry with his back. The guy lets running water soak the material, most probably to prevent staining it. 

With a calm voice that could have fooled anybody but Harry, Louis answers lowly, “S’alright. They’ll get what’s coming for them.”

Harry lets out a shaky breath.

  


Harry’s been on guard every minute since he spilt the drink on Louis. He just has this feeling he couldn’t shake under his skin, like he knows it won’t take long for the guy to plot his own revenge plan and put it into action. Harry was probably right, and very rarely did his guts fail him.

It’s now the day after, and the children’s classes had just finished, giving them free time to play and do activities for their recreation. 

Harry joins them outside, but no, he doesn't socialize or play with them. He keeps his distance under the shadow of a big tree by the front of the building, squinting at the harsh sun and wishing he’d worn another muscle tee because sweat is now dripping down his temples and his neck, making him deeply uncomfortable.

He shifts his position, cursing lowly when he feels the fabric absorb his perspiration. 

“What’s fuck?” A small voice asks.

Harry turns his head, welcomed by the sight of Marco, his innocent accomplice yesterday. “It’s a word. A _bad_ one. You might get punished if you say that around Patricia or anyone older than you.”

“If it’s a bad word, why do you say it?”

“Because I’m a grown-up. Grown-ups can do stuff children can’t,” Harry shrugs before leaning closer to Marco, an idea popping in his head before he whispers: “But if you accidentally say it...just tell them Louis gave you permission to.”

With wide eyes, Marco asks, “That’s okay?”

“Of course,” Harry exclaims, “I would give you permission myself, but sadly I’d given way too many kids mine.” He fakes a sad expression on his face but as soon as Marco’s said ‘okay’ and ran off, he grins, amused by how easily it went.

Louis couldn’t possibly get mad at children, could he? Harry laughs to himself despite the nervousness he feels about the other guy’s revenge. There's no way Louis could do something grand while the caregivers were around. The most he could do was maybe reciprocate what Harry did, or sock him when no one’s looking. 

Louis couldn’t—

Cold. Harry went from sweating so much to _freezing_ in a split second. He realizes this when he sees chunks of ice on the grass and the cold water that had seeped through his clothes that drenched him from head to toe.

“Oh dear!” Aurelie exclaims, rushing towards Harry and looking up at the source of the splash.

“My bad!” A voice shouts. Harry doesn’t need to look up at the open window to know it’s Louis, “We were defrosting the fridge, I didn’t realize someone would be out here!”

Harry purses his lips in anger when he sees his soaked custom-made ensemble. Louis had to drench him now, did he? _Now_ when Harry was wearing expensive clothing and not the past few days when he’d been on his much less pricey polos. 

And who even throws fridge water out of a window? He'd only ever seen a fridge in the kitchen _on the first floor_. Louis really had made an effort to bring it to the second floor and pour it down. He'd applaud if he weren't so pissed off.

“Oh dear,” Aurelie repeats, “you can go home Harry, but get changed or shower first. We don’t want you getting sick.”

“I’m fine,” he lies through his teeth, the gears in his head already whirring and working to come up with the evilest thing he could think of to subject Louis to. He makes the mistake of looking up, his eyes meeting the boy’s face staring impassively at him. Then, in the slowest manner, he sees Louis smirk. 

“Actually, Aurelie,” he turns to her, “I’d appreciate it if you could lend me some clothes. I’m sure you’ve kept some,” he keeps the statement open-ended so as to not spark suspicion.

Aurelie perks up. “Of course. Louis has a few in his closet that might fit you. Come, come.”

The woman brings Harry with her through the door and up the stairs to the second floor, where he assumes Louis’ quarter is. They enter a small room, a mattress at the side with no bed frame whatsoever, a huge window that had the refraction of light looking like crystals on the wall by the mattress, and a dresser at the opposite corner of that. Those were all that the room had. 

“What are you doing here?”

Aurelie and Harry both turn around at the sound of Louis’ clipped tone, his eyes harsh and his jaw ticking from how hard he was clenching it.

“Louis, would you mind letting Harry borrow some of your clothes? Poor boy is drenched and must be cold,” the woman asks kindly, and Harry fakes a shiver when her eyes land on him. 

“I would mind, actually. Get out,” Louis says so simply that it surprises Harry yet again. 

How dare he disrespect Aurelie? She is a sweet and kind woman, not a bad bone in her body as Harry knows her. How dare Louis hurl those words at her. He really doesn't have limits, does he?

Harry is about to speak up when Aurelie beats him to it. “Oh darling, I’m sure you’d reconsider, it was you, after all, who _accidentally_ spilled ice cold water on him.” Harry fights the urge to snicker. Madam Aurelie has spunk in her after all.

Louis huffs, clearly cornered. Stomping his feet like a petulant child, he heads over to his dresser and pulls out the ugliest of what little clothes he owned and tosses it to Harry. They weren’t even folded, for fuck’s sake. Harry pulls it up, seeing it was a hideous green and white Christmas sweater vest with giant protruding antlers and a red fluffy ball in the chest area. The trousers look ripped beyond repair, massive parts of it missing at the knee area. 

_This boy,_ Harry grunts.

“Thank you honey,” Aurelie says to Louis before leading Harry out the door, “you can use the bathroom down the hall. It has warm water. There are clean towels in the shower.”

Harry mutters a thanks to Aurelie, making a show of dusting the clothes off in front of Louis. He heads towards the bathroom, only then discovering they were communal, separated by tiled walls that barely reached his neck. He grimaces before cleaning himself off, his effort more concentrated on not slipping than scrubbing himself free of fridge water. 

He emerges minutes later, his skin clean and pinkish, hair wet. He dresses himself, cringing at how the material was irritating every surface it touched. The trousers end just above his ankles and the vest is a bit tight on him, confirming that Louis is indeed smaller than he is. 

Just as he’d suspected, the holes of the trousers were big enough for his kneecaps to peek through and then some. Thankfully, the zipper isn’t broken and the waist actually fit him. 

With a heavy sigh, he steps out, fluffy slippers on his feet. 

He passes by Louis’ room and sees him there, standing still by the window. The sunlight hits his room perfectly at this hour, the light causing crystals to show on Louis' arm instead of the wall.

“You couldn’t have picked better choices?” Harry asks bitterly.

Louis doesn’t even flinch or jolt at the sound of Harry’s voice, almost like he had already known Harry had been there all along. “You’re quite the hypocrite,” he replies, making Harry’s blood boil instantly. He doubts he’d ever get used to Louis’ foul mouth. 

Clearly, there's no space for playing nice or pretenses. 

“Were you not educated enough to learn manners?”

“I don’t need to be well-educated to know you’re a rich, prissy, spoiled brat here against your will for crossing your...” Louis trails off, turning his head halfway and looking at Harry from the corner of his eye, “mom? Aw, no, Dad.” He faces front again. 

“Got everything figured out, have you?” Harry snarls. 

“Everything but your world, apparently,” Louis turns fully now, his entire body facing Harry. The sunlight streaming in kisses his back, creating a glowing light around his figure. “Tell me, when your expensive clothes and rings of gold are stripped away, what does that leave you?”

The question pisses Harry off—so much, because right then and there, he couldn’t come up with an answer. He's fuming in anger because this small, unfortunate orphan had hit him right where it counts and effortlessly had one up on him. 

Not about to be upstaged, he responds: “Still more than you.”

Harry expects his reply to tick Louis off, to evoke some emotion out of the guy, but it doesn’t, and Harry hates himself for showing more than Louis did. 

The guy squints ever so slightly. “Right,” he says dismissively, turning on his heel to face the window again, leaving Harry to his own devices. 

Harry leaves the floor, frustrated yet again and feeling defeated.

  


After incessant convincing from the caregivers, Harry decides to stay for dinner that evening. He had been itching to get himself out of Louis’ repulsive clothing, but if he didn’t agree to this, he’d owe them _two_ dinners. It was Patricia who had came up with that rule.

That said, Harry drags himself to the dining area, plopping down on a chair surrounding a round table. There were multiple set up, arranged to fit the space with barely enough room for an adult to walk around. Harry notes how there is one caregiver per table, so as to supervise, he guesses. He shares his table with Edelie. 

The children start filing in, each seat slowly being occupied. Harry’s fingers remain crossed under the tablecloth, praying to whoever the hell was out there that he not be stuck eating with the rude and unpleasant teen. 

Louis walks in—rather, Louis is _dragged_ in by Luna as she closes her fist around his pointer finger. Louis’ face remains passive as he lets the little girl pull him wherever she wants. They find a spot, hurrying over it when suddenly, a little boy aged six plants his bum down on the seat, chatting excitedly to his friend.

Luna is undeterred, she goes on and circles the area, her small feet leading Louis. They’re running out of seats, Harry notices, dread filling him as he sees the empty chairs around their table. 

As if that’s not bad enough, Edelie calls Luna over. The child, already familiar with the woman’s voice does not hesitate to come closer. 

Louis’ mouth opens slightly as he pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Harry instinctively straightens up in his seat, the need to look _bigger_ similar to wild animals when faced with danger. Louis’ gaze falls on him, instantly making him tense, their earlier exchange still ringing in his ears. 

Louis pulls a high chair from the corner and places Luna down on it, taking his place beside her, and Edelie on her other side. The older woman alternates between feeding Luna and herself, grinning with every antic she comes up with to get the little girl to open her mouth.

Meanwhile, Louis eats quietly, surprisingly proper in his movements— _exceptionally_ proper, despite the lack of cutlery. Harry stops, his hands frozen in their place. One of the many things he’s learned in his nineteen years was how to spot a product of old money. He’d always found it easy to tell the difference between one who was and wasn’t. 

Looking at Louis, he decides he isn’t entirely sure, the subject too vague to be analyzed. But he recalls the way Louis speaks and acts—always with grace, crisp and direct to the point, features always schooled to indifference. Harry rarely ever meets someone like that, especially a person who comes from an average background. 

Catching himself, he frowns and shakes the thought away. 

What did it matter anyway? Born with a silver spoon or not, that doesn't change the fact that Louis is an awful person to be around with. 

Harry resumes eating, sneaking a look at the boy one last time.


	2. Chapter 2

The ceiling of Harry’s room is adorned with hundreds of flickering gold specks. They twinkle around the soft yellow-orange glow from his _Aquarius_ Turrel piece, the comfort sinking deep into his flesh, soothing his nerves and washing away his worries. He’d had them installed when he was this younger, wide-eyed version of himself and had always thought of his room as his escape from everything.

On his bad days, all he had to do was activate the blackout curtains and look up. He loves it, still views it as a gateway to somewhere far from the buzz of his life. He needed it way more now—the peace, the quiet. 

Eyes trained up, he lets out a deep exhale, moved by the vision no matter how many thousand times he’s seen it. This is his private space, his safe haven, where no other feet had touched the carpeted floors. It’d always felt like being reborn.

Oftentimes people wondered how he hasn’t gotten tangled with narcotics and alcohol despite being surrounded by it all. Mostly self-control, he answers, but this was the other half of the reason. His little piece of heaven tucked away in a corner behind cream wooden doors. 

He shuts his eyes, breaths steady.

**_“Tell me, when your expensive clothes and rings of gold are stripped away, what does that leave you?”_ **

Harry’s brows furrow and he presses his eyes tighter to drown it out, but it doesn’t work. If anything, it only subjects him to a much greater torture. He could _hear_ Louis’ voice inside his head, _feel_ Louis’ stare burning his skin.

He sits up and runs his hand through his hair, growling in frustration. Stupid Louis. Stupid, stupid Louis. He paces back and forth, his peace gone. How could that boy haunt him even from miles away?

That exact moment, Harry’s phone rings, the display screen showing his best friend’s name. He answers, pressing the gadget against his ear.

“The night is lovely,” Zayn’s coy tone sends a wave of ease into Harry.

He steps out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him and walks into the large space where he usually receives his guests. “It is,” he replies, leaning on the railings of his balcony and feeling the wind blow against his face. 

“That’s it?” Zayn laughs. “Location?”

“Home.”

“Can I come over?”

“I’m grounded,” he answers before adding “—ish.”

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s not a ‘no.’”

“That’s not a ‘no,’” Harry repeats affirmatively, a corner of his lips quirking up.

Time and time again, Harry is reminded of the loopholes in his house’s security. Half an hour after the phone call, he watches as Zayn parkours to his room, undetected once again. 

His friend silently lands flat on his feet. “Piss poor protection detail, I tell you. If I did that at my house, I’d have a bullet lodged right between my brows before I even jumped.”

“They’re to keep intruders off the property—not ninjas.”

Grinning over his shoulder, Zayn plants himself on Harry’s couch, looking up. “Ah—” his eyes absorb the dusting of stars on the ceiling, “—never gets old.”

Harry’s chest warms every time Zayn shows his appreciation of his room. It was undeniable how the imitation of the vast outer space made their concerns seem small and insignificant. Throughout the years, they would just hang out here, playing Xbox, having a glass of wine or two, staring at the flat surface and just talking about whatever they could think of. 

“Where you headed off to this time?” Zayn asks, resting his arm over the backrest of the sofa.

“Surprisingly, just a few miles from here. Little Rock Home.”

Zayn sputters, surprised. “The orphanage?”

“That’s the one,” Harry sighs, “it’s not so bad, honestly,” he finds himself saying almost defensively. 

He doesn’t take it back though as memories with the twins crowd his mind—their dimpled smiles and soft caresses. They’d made him feel welcome, and as much as he hated admitting it to himself, he’d grown rather fond of them and had been looking at them as something akin to mother figures.

The children were another thing. He hasn’t bonded with everyone and he doubts he ever will, seeing that most of them were aloof and would rather keep to themselves. (Harry doesn’t want to force his friendship on anyone.) Now, some kids—Luna and Marco, to be exact—have been warming up to him. More and more, they showed their ease in his presence. 

At the thought of Luna, his mind immediately jumps to the blue-eyed boy who seems to be wrapped around her finger. Harry’s face sours in remembrance. 

“Actually it _is_ bad,” he jumps over the couch and takes up the space beside Zayn, his eyes wide, “it’s awful, Z. Terrible, terrible.”

Zayn laughs at the sudden change in Harry, his brown orbs reduced to slits. “What? Why? Someone giving you trouble?”

“Yeah, this Louis kid.”

“Kid?”

“He annoys me. That makes him a kid even if he’s about our age.”

“Right,” Zayn drawls noncommittally. “Well, _you’re_ annoyed. That makes you a kid too.”

Harry gasps, smacking Zayn’s shoulder. “Do not take his side!”

Zayn chuckles, rubbing the spot before shrugging. “If he riles you up so much, just get back at him. Your quick and devious scheming would be coming in handy.”

A low breath escapes Harry, eyes focusing on the marble floor. “You think I haven’t tried? Kid has the universe on his side. He bathed me in fridge water, Z.” Zayn laughs at his horrified face. “It’s not funny,” he frowns.

Zayn makes a motion of zipping his lips, the corners twitching. 

“And he’s rude as hell,” Harry continues, leaning back, a displeased look on his features. “Every time I speak to him, he becomes a... a _peashooter_.”

Zayn pauses a bit, thinking, then he angles his body towards Harry. “He hates it when you talk to him?”

“So much.”

“Then that’s exactly what you do.”

Harry blinks, blankly staring at his friend and considers it. 

Zayn goes on saying, “It’s harmless. You won’t get in trouble for it—unless it becomes a fistfight which you know very well to avoid—and you get to piss him off. Win-win,” he finishes, shrugging.

“You’re god-sent,” Harry declares, eyes shining and his cheeks rounding from how hard he was smiling, actually seeing reason. It could work. It _would_ work, he was sure. 

Like Zayn had said, it is indeed harmless. No one ever got reprimanded or punished for sparking conversation, right? And seeing as how Louis gets really pressed when Harry is near, it would follow that he would get even more irritated if Harry starts to converse with him. And if it does end in a fistfight, he’d just have to make sure he doesn’t throw the first punch. Oh, Zayn might be a genius.

“You heard about Niall?” Zayn asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. Harry shakes his head and Zayn smirks. “Kicked out, again.”

“Jesus, that’s what? The fourth now?”

“Idiot’s ticking all the boxes off of his school shopping list.”

They share a laugh, Niall’s existence a reminder that they weren’t half the little devil he was. Their trio was non-arguably the most iconic group in their country, Niall scoring the most fuck-ups. He’s a wild child down to the tee, the kind of kid principals were cowering behind their desks for. It’s a miracle there still were schools taking him under their wing despite his misadventures.

“He’ll run out soon enough and move to America,” Harry sniggers.

“Nah, he said he’d check Scotland out. Remember his obsession with Loch Ness?”

Harry’s head bobs up and down, laughter shaking his shoulders when he remembers socks, shirts and other memorabilia Niall had collected not even a year ago. He had worn them for a straight two months, not repeating anything. _That_ was how invested he was.

The boys went on and on that night, exchanging stories and news, just catching up with each other. When it was finally time for Zayn to leave, Harry stands up and waits by the balcony. 

“Mind if I use the front door?” Zayn asks, stretching his limbs. 

“Still love it?”

“You know I do, man.”

Harry giggles, knowing Zayn has had a thing for doors ever since they were young yet from time to time, chooses to forego using it by climbing on walls and well, balconies, to sneak in.

“Be my guest, then.”

“Nice to see you, man. Tell me how it goes with Louis.”

They do their handshake before Zayn trots on the hallway and down the stairs, vanishing from Harry’s sight. Zayn continues his walk, already familiar with the house and its corners. 

He passes by Landon’s office, hearing the man on a phone call. Does he ever sleep? He wonders before speeding up, almost jogging to the front door. When he pulls it open, the two guards from the patio turn towards him, suddenly alert. 

“Alfie, nice night, isn’t it?” He acknowledges one bitterly, letting his dislike with their services show. 

Alfie scowls, his nostrils flaring, and motions for his colleague to point his pistol to the ground. Zayn struts past him, smug in his walk before he ducks into his car outside the property.

“Incompetent asses,” he mutters just as his car speeds off into the night.

  


Harry arrives at Little Rock that morning with renewed vigor. _Operation Shadow Louis_ is a go and he can’t help the excitement he feels on testing it out. 

When he walks in, the children are engaged in their classes and Louis is nowhere in sight, which he had already expected. Harry greets the caregivers a good morning, falling into a casual conversation with them.

“Your energy’s different today,” Aurelie points out, her eyes on the children but her hand wrapped around his forearm. She squeezes once before letting go.

“I’d been enlightened.”

Aurelie’s brows arch at the smirk playing on Harry’s lips. “God bless the enlightener.”

Harry hums. “God bless him.”

Without prodding, Harry helps out on the chores, his body vibrating with so much excitement that he couldn’t keep still. He’s swept the floor and is now wiping the windows, all these he’d never done before today, and felt quite proud of himself. 

He steps back, his inspecting eyes on the glass.

Edelie appears beside him. “You couldn’t have missed a spot.”

“I’m that good, aren’t I?” Harry asks, puffing his chest out.

“No,” she replies, sipping her tea, “you’ve been sponging down that window for ten minutes now. I’m sure it’ll be pristine until next week.”

Harry tries to poke her side but she skirts away, her tinkling laughter soft in his ears. He continues cleaning. When ten thirty rolled around, Harry joins the twins in the kitchen, them on the stove and him setting up the tables.

He likes the buzz of the place, he realizes as he set the plates down. He surprisingly likes moving around and always having something to do. It's a change from just sitting and being served food when he was at home. Cleaning too, was something he never thought he’d grow to like, but he secretly loved the sight of dust piled up on the floor, or the shine of spotless glass.

Promptly at eleven thirty, the kids start taking their seats. Harry stood in the corner, hands clasped behind his bum as he waited. Each table was filling up with children, some chattering animatedly and some chewing quietly. It's another thing he observed about Little Rock, you could do your business and no one would bat an eye as long as you weren’t misbehaving.

The exact moment Louis enters, Harry captures his lower lip between his teeth, fighting his smirk. When Louis settles on a seat, Harry hurries and plops down to the one beside it.

“Good morning?” He asks, overly chirpy.

Louis doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at Harry as he sets his food on his plate. 

Harry’s unmoved.

“I had a good one,” he declares, faking giddiness. “We cleaned. I didn’t realize there were so many surfaces to wipe and sweep on. I learned how to sweep today too. Seeing the dust on the pan was nice, but nothing beat the good ol’ vacuum.”

Harry’s blabbering, and although he's sure he sounds like an airhead, his chest balloons at the sight of Louis’ hard eyes even when Louis carries on ignoring him.

“I enjoyed wiping the windows the most, there’s just something about the soapy suds. I love when they cover my hand—”

“Piss off,” Louis cusses lowly.

Harry’s mouth quirks up. “Well, yeah, I wash them off, but like I said, I enjoy them.”

Louis sends a death glare Harry’s way but Harry only grins at him brightly, victory making his chest swell. Louis silently stands up, his plate and glass in his hands when he suddenly pauses in his step, a calculating gaze settling on Harry. 

Harry maintains his radiant expression, assuming it would scare Louis away. That expression slowly dims when Louis sits back down. He watches as Louis scoops food, and instead of piling it up on his own plate, Louis drops it on Harry’s.

“Have a good meal,” Louis says, a smug look on his face.

Harry turns away and picks his spoon up, grumbling to himself.

  


It's now the afternoon break. Food had been served and Harry had come down with Aurelie to the stockroom to fetch something from a project bin. She had wanted the kids to play a game, she'd said. Harry haven't got a clue which one, but he agrees to tag along.

The moment Harry steps in, he decides it’s his least liked place in the building.

“I think I’ll stay here,” he mutters while backing away, his wide eyes darting from corner to corner.

Aurelie pauses, glancing at Harry over her shoulder and sees the distress on his face. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m not exactly fond of anything that has more than four legs.”

She bursts out laughing. “Okay. I’ll be over quickly.”

Harry starts counting by the door frame, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. When he reaches sixty, he cranes his neck to check on her. “Done yet?”

“No,” Aurelie calls out, “I’m getting eaten by spiders.”

Harry shudders, feeling little legs crawling up his arms. “Not funny!” He rubs his arms harshly, not liking the sensation.

Aurelie only chuckles in response. Harry pokes his head in just for a second before stepping back again. His brain registers the sight of a large, cloth-covered structure that he suspects is a piano. He risks a peek again, just to confirm. It’s an upright one, that much he could tell. 

She notices him looking. “Want to come see it?”

Harry says yes with hesitation, only to see a small black creature landing on the cloth. Decided now, he shakes his head. “Maybe next time.”

“Alright,” she says and laughs in the same breath.

“Okay.”

They head back to the children playing in the lawn. Aurelie looks at him, eyebrows up. “You in for this one?”

“I’ll observe first.”

She nods, a smile on her lips. Edelie groans at the sight of the bandanas—a yellow and a bright purple. “Not that again.”

“Lighten up sister,” Aurelie admonishes lightheartedly, “that’s not giving a good impression to Harry.”

He watches them, amused, as the children took a bit more convincing too before they huddled up around her. She's whispering nice, encouraging words to her ‘team’ with a soft and excited smile on her lips. Edelie on the other hand was quite... lively. 

“Alright squad! Repeat after me: we are not losers!” She yells with her hands in front of her chest, game face on, and emphasizing each word with a clap. The children follow her, a bit timid. Not having it, she has them repeat it, this time with more energy. Satisfied, she smirks smugly at her sister.

Bending at the waist, Aurelie shakes her head before telling the children to have fun and run like hell.

The children position themselves, five per team, forming a line. As if on cue, each pair of arms after the first person loops around the waist of the kid in front of them. Some test their holds, interlocking their fingers to make their grip less breakable and tugging a little to get the feel of it. 

Harry continues to observe, intrigued.

The twins head to their teams, each inserting a bandana into the last child’s waistband—yellow for Aurelie’s team and the bright purple for Edelie’s, leaving a part of it to dangle. They step back, inspecting their work before coming to stand beside Harry. 

“It’s called Dragon Tag,” Aurelie chuckles. “Dragons are the first in line, tails are the last. Watch.”

Edelie starts counting down from five. The children dig their heels into the ground, bowing a little as their faces turn more serious, more focused. 

“Three! Two! One! Go!” 

The children sprint, stumbling on their feet to match the speed of the rest of the team. They move like waves, smacking against each other messily and moving in curves. Shouts and squeals fill Harry’s ears as the dragons chase the tails, trying to snag the bandanas. 

The twins yell their cheers from their places, hyping the children more.

Edelie’s group falls sideways, the children grunting. Aurelie’s team hurries to them, the dragon ready to snatch the bandana when the tail from Edelie’s team gets on his feet and sprints on his own, the opposing group rushing to chase him.

“That is not allowed!” Aurelie yells incredulously, gaping at her sister. 

“Run!” Edelie screams delightedly at the tail, her fist raised in the air. “That’s the spirit! Use your feet!”

The pursuit continues, the sisters and Harry laughing hysterically from their side as they cheer on. Edelie’s team rises, resuming their positions before motioning for their tail to attach once again. When the tail does, they start to scurry. 

When Aurelie’s dragon is directly behind Edelie’s tail, the praises become louder. The dragon swipes his hand once, then a second time, missing. The dragon from Edelie’s team rounds and heads to the other team’s tail. An unspoken thing passes among the members before they purposefully crash themselves against the other group. 

Aurelie’s team goes down, their coach letting out a loud and drawled out “no” before urging them to get back on their feet. Unfortunately for them, Edelie’s dragon was quick to move. The kid bends over and snatches the other group’s bandana, their team collapsing in a heap of sweaty and exhausted bodies as Edelie jumps up and down, fist pumping and rejoicing in their win. 

They engage in another round of stumbling feet and hoarse cries, this time, the point lands on Aurelie’s team, making the play even for both groups.

Each coach calls on their members, huddling and giving instructions and strategies, the atmosphere turning from clean fun to competitive. Aurelie double takes at Harry’s direction, cutting her pep talk short.

“Louis,” she greets, warm but surprised, “joining us today?”

Harry looks over his shoulder and sees Louis walking towards them, Luna alongside him with her fist closed on the hem of his shirt. 

“Luna wanted to watch,” he answers simply, stopping a few feet from Harry’s side before crossing his arms. 

“The kids could use another player,” she hints.

Harry smirks before raising his hand. “I’ll go,” he announces before jogging over to them. 

The other twin notices, a frown on her face. “That’s not fair. I’ll need one more on my team too.” She turns to Harry, eyes squinted, “Harry, you traitor.”

Louis remains silent, watchful. 

“Louis, play in mine,” Edelie calls, and he doesn’t take a moment to hesitate, he responds by shaking his head. “Meals in your room—two days,” she bargains, voice firm. Aurelie’s jaw drop was a clear sign that that move wasn’t encouraged in Little Rock.

“Make it five.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

Edelie pauses to reconsider, Harry’s fingers are crossed at his side. There was no way he could make _Operation Shadow Louis_ happen if she agrees to this. 

“Two,” she says, unwavering, raising her palm to shush Louis when he opens his mouth, “and a day of sleeping in, _if_ we win.”

“Edelie!” Aurelie gasps, alarmed.

“Oh relax, Patty’s out of town this week,” Edelie grins before turning to Louis with arched brows.

“Deal.”

Louis saunters over to them, Luna trailing behind him. When he gets there, Edelie plucks a coin out of her pocket. “Heads or tails,” she explains to everyone before flipping it. She catches the coin midair before slapping it on her forearm. She beams when she uncovers it. “Tails. Get in the back boys.”

Harry and Louis position themselves behind the children. 

Aurelie moves closer to whisper to Harry. “Louis can get a bit... competitive to get what he wants.”

Harry glances at Louis and sees him jog in place, light on his feet, before stretching his limbs and tilting his head from side to side. A small wave of panic runs through Harry. 

_Why the hell does Louis look like he’s getting warmed up for a marathon? Why’s he bending that way? Do I need to bend like that too?_

His anxiety spikes, threatened by the way Louis was prepping. He’d never played this game before and Louis clearly has. 

He imitates Louis’ movements, also bending, flexing and twisting his muscles.

When it was time, he tangles his fingers around the waist of the kid in front of him. He sees Louis doing the same, his figure already bent and the bandana tucked into his waistband, the same as Harry.

Edelie counts down again.

When she shouts go, Harry’s teammates dash to Louis, not wasting any time. Just when the other team’s dragon locks his gaze on Harry, he skirts away, dragging the kid in front with him. He squeals, the thrill coursing through his body. It's exhilarating. 

Their dragon lunges towards Louis, and he jumps away just in time, putting distance between him and the kid. They’re at a standoff, both teams assessing the other. Harry’s dragon fakes a right before darting to the other side, the movement of Louis’ team mimicking theirs. 

The twins’ yells echo in his ears.

Faking a move won’t work, Harry notes. Their team runs, and his grip on the child in front of him tightens as they speed off to catch Louis’ bandana. The other group is quick to act, the dragon rushing to get to Harry too. The kid in front of Harry sees the attack first, shouting at him to move away.

Harry breaks his hold and dashes to the open space, laughing his head off when he slips from the dragon’s grabbing hands. With his palms on his knees, he tries to catch his breath, squinting at the kids. 

That’s when he sees it.

Louis is sprinting towards him, his feet almost floating at how fast he was going. 

“Hey hey hey!” Harry shouts, panicked as he turns on his heel and bolts around the courtyard, a very fast Louis trailing him. Harry’s long legs pump against the grass, frantic to get away. 

He watches in astonishment as Louis seems to be gaining more and more speed. He pushes himself harder to go faster despite the burning in his lungs. The children and the twins’ laughter ring in the place as they watch the two run around each other. 

Harry curses when he feels himself going slower despite the rush of wind brushing against his body, making wisps of his hair fly in all directions as he makes sharp turns to evade Louis. 

“Slow the hell down!” He yells at Louis, breaking into a laugh.

He doesn’t hear Louis respond.

All of a sudden, a hard body collides with his, lifting him off the ground. A collection of gasps can be heard from where he was. 

He flies, his lungs expanding as he feels himself suspended in the air for a moment before he slams against the grass, his left shoulder taking most of the hit. He hisses in pain at the impact, his eyes clenched.

Harry lays flat for a while, his heart’s heavy thumping making his chest vibrate. 

He lifts his head and opens his eyes just in time to see Louis tripping on his feet, almost faceplanting, but catching himself last minute. Louis is panting, exhaustion clear on his features as he crouches down. 

Harry’s gaze stays on him, watching as Louis pushes the hair off of his forehead, cheeks pink and sweat trickling down his temples. His head drops between his knees as he takes steady and even breaths. 

Then, his right hand raises, the familiar bright yellow bandana previously tucked into Harry’s waistband now in his fist.

Distant cheers enter Harry’s hearing.

Shit. Louis won.

Bodies crowd around him, blocking the glare of the afternoon sun against his face. His lifts himself up on his elbows, squinting.

“Please tell me you didn’t break anything,” Aurelie pleads, her face etched with worry.

“I didn’t break anything.”

Harry flexes his shoulder. Although pain seared from the muscle, it didn’t seem broken, just shocked by the sudden action, he guesses. He gets on his feet, only now noticing how sweaty he is. The children are looking at him with awestruck expressions.

“You flew!” One exclaims.

Harry chuckles. “That I did.” He scans the crowd, looking for Louis. He spots him already halfway back to the house, lifting his shirt up to his stomach to wipe the sweat dripping down his neck. He doesn't seem the least bit affected by their collision. 

“Come on, loser, let’s get you inside,” Edelie pats his shoulder—the bad one—and Harry winces. She retracts her hand, her mouth rounding. “Ooh. Sorry.”

Edelie has found some clothes for Harry, this time by not going through Louis’ stuff. Turns out there were extra ones kept in storage for boys their age who came in. Aurelie should’ve known that before he was forced to shrug on those horrific pieces of clothing from Louis’ dresser. 

Harry is now dressed in loose, acid-washed jeans and a thin white shirt that was a bit big on him, the sleeves almost reaching his elbows.

He hears shuffling, so he turns his head, only to see Louis walk in with a towel slung over his shoulder, his arms cradling a change of clothes and toiletries. Harry steps out of his stall, wide eyes darting from Louis’ arms to the basket under the shower he was just in.

“What a diva. You have your own soap and shampoo?” He asks. 

“You care?”

“Obviously.”

Louis walks past him. “I don’t.”

Harry snags the bottle off of Louis’ arms and pops it open, bringing it up to his nose and taking a huge whiff. He smirks. 

“I didn’t take you for a vanilla guy.”

“I’m not,” Louis hisses, taking it from Harry’s hands. “Bugger off.”

Harry chuckles and watches as Louis ignores him and steps into a stall, the surrounding walls just barely reaching his shoulders. He hangs his unused clothes and towel over the door. He moves to take his shirt off but pauses midway, meeting Harry’s eyes.

“Scat,” Louis commands simply.

“Nah, I’m good right here,” Harry replies, leaning against the door frame. “Plus, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he adds, enjoying the sight of irritation bubbling inside Louis.

Louis fixes a hard glare on him, his lips set on a thin line before something flashes in his eyes. His expression changes entirely. “Then by all means, don’t be shy and step right in.”

Heat rises up to Harry’s cheeks at Louis’ insinuation, caught off-guard.

Recovering, he straightens, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I would, but I’m sure there’s a lawsuit in there waiting to happen.” No, he wouldn’t _actually_. He just wanted to mock Louis.

“Lawsuit?” Louis snorts, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. “Don’t you rich people get away with everything?”

Harry sours at that, the question hitting differently, because Louis was right—they did get away with everything. 

Why, that was the exact reason Niall changed schools faster than a chameleon changes colors, why Zayn could go in and out of properties undetected _most_ of the time, and why he himself had not yet been jailed his entire life. 

It was the truth. And Harry, he didn’t appreciate it slapping him in the face.

“What’s your problem, Louis?”

“You not leaving me alone.”

“Is that why you’re such a shitty conversationalist?”

Louis bends down, his head disappearing for a while before he straightens up again. “Oh please,” he sighs, slinging his discarded clothes over the wall, “try not to deflect your issues on me.”

“Right,” Harry drawls, “a kid wouldn’t get it.”

“A kid is seventeen.”

“And understandably stupid.”

“Says the guy picking a fight with said seventeen-year old in the shower.” Water starts pouring down Louis’ face and he turns away, dismissing Harry. 

Harry leaves, grinding his teeth.

  


Dinner went by pretty slow, what with Harry’s sulking and terrible mood. Louis has decided to collect his prize by taking his dinner in his quarters. When he had left the room with his plate in his hand, the caregivers gave a look to Edelie—almost automatically, to which she just shrugs, stuffing food into Luna’s waiting mouth.

By the time everyone was finished and retiring to their bedrooms, Harry had shot a text to Ed, saying he was ready to be picked up. The man replies a minute after, informing him that he was needed by Landon to take some guests home. 

Harry groans, itching to be in his bed.

“Trouble?” Edelie asks, putting plates away.

He slips his phone back into the jeans’ pocket. “Might take a while to pick me up.”

Aurelie blinks up at him. "Well, you could always stay the night,” she suggests, a smile on her face. 

Harry returns it despite the idea of an overnight in an old building not appealing to him. He stands up, stretching. Edelie tells him they’re lights out in twenty and Harry only nods in response.

“I’ll get some fresh air,” he announces before moving to step out of the house.

As soon as he’s outside, he inhales a lungful, staring out into the crisp, dark surroundings. Harry’s hands grip the banister, his head falling back. At least this is nice, he thinks.

What a long day it had been. He flexes his shoulder, expecting pain, but is rewarded with only a dull ache. Damn, Louis really went hard. It surprised Harry how strong Louis was to send him flying a good foot away.

The hair on his nape suddenly stand up in attention again, sending goosebumps across his skin. He looks around, eyes narrowing in the dark and his head darting from left to right, looking for something... someone. He catches himself then. 

What the hell is he doing? He couldn’t really be looking for _him_ , could he?

He shakes the feeling away, chalking it up to the cold breeze. And so, minutes of silence pass, just Harry, the night and the moon. There seems to be no clouds up in the sky, he observes, head still tilted up.

“Waiting for your carriage, princess?”

Harry turns at the sound of the familiar voice, finding no one behind him. 

“Up here,” Louis says.

Harry faces heavenward. “Ah,” he sighs when he finds Louis sitting on the window ledge from his room, his feet dangling, “you look taller from this angle.” 

“You look like the same prissy spoilt brat from up here,” Louis snarks loud enough for only Harry to hear, his neck outstretched so his eyes could latch on to the dark sky.

“Why do you hate rich people so much?”

Louis’ eyes find Harry’s, his face glowing despite the pale shade of moonlight hitting his skin. “I don’t _hate_. It takes too much energy.”

The wind blows and Louis’ tank top ripples, but he doesn’t seem the least bit affected by the cold. His bare feet cross against each other as he refocuses his attention on the moon. Many times he’s done this in front of Harry—pulled away by looking somewhere more fascinating. Oddly enough, this doesn’t feel like a dismissal, Harry thinks as he watches Louis close his eyes.

“So the way you’ve acted around me—”

“Is me being truthful. I don’t like you,” Louis finishes.

The corners of Harry’s mouth point down. So hate and dislike weren’t the same in Louis’ dictionary. 

_“Why?”_

Harry hates the way his voice trembled with desperation—not for Louis’ approval, but for answers. 

From the very first day, all it took was one look at Harry and Louis decided he’d hold no amor for him. He didn’t understand. How could one _look_ at someone and just immediately dislike them without having met them first?

Louis doesn’t answer.

“That’s a bit drama queen-y of you,” Harry criticizes provocatively.

He stands still, certain this was the part where Louis would spew out some harsh words, most probably about Harry being dainty or prudish. He waits silently, but nothing. Louis doesn’t speak, and it irks Harry more than when he does. 

The ringing of Harry’s cell cuts through the quiet. He presses it to his ear, turning away from Louis.

“I’m outside,” Ed says. 

Harry sighs, relieved. _Finally._

“I’ll be right there,” he replies before tucking his phone back into his pocket. He pokes his head in the common area, finding the twins there and some other stay-in caregivers. He bids them goodbye, wishing a good night and whispering a see-you-tomorrow, then he heads out.

Harry walks across the courtyard, out of the prison cell-like gates, and ducks into the waiting car. 

Before Ed drives away, Harry’s eyes move towards his right, past the gates and to the window ledge. He sees Louis still there, everything the same as when he last saw him, but his face was no longer titled upwards. 

No. 

Louis was now looking at him.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry arrives home with exhaustion weighing his body down—so much so that he could barely keep his eyes open. He drags himself across the foyer, each step bringing him closer to the flight of stairs heading up to his room.

"Harry?” Landon’s voice calls out from the dining area.

He sighs, stopping. “Yeah. Just on my way up.” He shifts his weight to his other foot, eyes drooping further and words slowing.

He makes a move to continue walking but halts when Landon addresses him again.

“Join me for dinner.”

Harry sets his eyes on his watch, his feet taking him towards his father. “Dad, it’s ten in the evening,” he chastises. Only then does he notice the dark circles under the older man’s green orbs. 

Poor guy looks spent as well—must’ve been a long day. Despite the obvious tiredness his father must be feeling, the old man still retains the stiffness in his posture, back straight and chin up.

“I wasn’t asking,” Landon replies firmly yet the small smile on his mouth served as a complete contradiction to his tone.

All Harry wants to do is to tuck himself under the covers and sleep the night away, but the hopeful and expectant expression on his father’s face had him pulling a chair back and planting his bum on it. Maybe he could spare a few minutes.

Harry spots the small cake on the table.

“For the chocolate mousse,” he reasons feebly.

Landon pushes it towards him, leaning back on his chair to ring a bell. Harry snags the object, surprising his father. Before Landon could voice his confusion, Harry stands up, heading to the drawers himself and taking a while before coming back with a small plate and a fork. 

The older Styles arches his brows at him, and Harry pretends to not see it. He takes a small slice of the mousse, the part with the most foam and offers it to his father—Landon declines—so he places it on his plate instead.

“How’s Little Rock?” 

His father’s tone is casual, but his posture is anything but.

Harry smiles wryly almost imperceptibly, sure his Dad is expecting to hear the worst. It isn't a surprising behavior from his old man, but that didn’t make the unjustified disappointment tug any less harder on his insides.

He swallows before speaking. “Great. Have you spoken with Gemma?”

His father frowns at the clipped reply and the subject change but answers anyway.  


“She’s exceptional, jumping from Italy to France to do hands-on research about the winery. She’s overseeing a small takeover as well,” he states, his body going lax. Harry doesn’t miss the tinge of pride that colors his father’s response. “Smart woman, that one—always could trust her to make valuable connections and crucial decisions. You should have her coach you sometime.”

He watches as Landon continues his meal, oblivious to the sharp pain twisting in Harry’s chest.

He never bore ill will towards his sister, never thought anything more of the sibling rivalry their father had been trying to spark for years now, but it affects him nonetheless. It had been one of the reasons he'd backed away from managing the empire his Dad had built—he didn’t want to feed into the old man’s satisfaction.

It was cruel, twisted, and _petty_ even, for him to do that, but seeing Gemma do well is proof enough of him making the right choice. The business would _strive_ without him. Plus he was sure his disinterest would only prove to be disadvantageous to the company. 

“I’ll send her your regards later,” Landon offers nonchalantly, finishing his meal. 

That would mean they talked more often than Harry and he did. A dry smile is on Harry’s lips. He was physically closer to his father but the distance had never felt greater. 

Feeling kicked in the gut, Harry stands, the back of his knees pushing the chair back. 

“I’ll see you in the morning...” he trails off, realizing he almost never does, so he adds—“or something”—before pivoting and moving towards his room. 

  


Harry didn't feel like coming back to Little Rock that morning. 

HIs duvet is covering him from the chin down, his body curled up as the cold air licks his skin despite the thick cloth over him. He snuggles deeper into the covers, groaning when his alarm blares up.

“No,” he moans, pulling it over his head.

He hears three knocks on the door before Ed’s voice fills his ears. 

“We’ve got to go, Harry. Get up.”

He thrashes in his bed like a child throwing a tantrum, kicking his duvet in all directions and exposing his naked torso. He curses, shivering and wrapping himself with it again before sitting.

“How do you know I’m not up?”

“Because I know,” Ed answers, not missing a beat. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ll meet you outside. Give me ten.”

“Ten,” the man repeats, “or I come in here and haul your bum to the car, birthday suit or not.”

“ . . . Make it fifteen.”

“Ten.”

“Twelve?” Harry bargains shyly.

_“Ten.”_

He huffs, hauling his arse off the bed and rushing to shower.

Harry emerges minutes later, fresh and admittedly feeling better and agreeable. He puts on a simple ensemble—a black Gucci top with the brand logo plastered across the chest and some skinny jeans, completing the look with his Vans.

Although he hated that he wasn’t given enough time to pick a more elaborate outfit, he quite liked this vibe.

Ed walks in not a minute later after he pulls his shirt down. 

“Sheesh, please stop hovering,” Harry requests, folding the sleeves of his tee and putting more of his tattoos on display. “I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

The bald man sighs heavily before stepping out, leaving Harry to chuckle to himself—what’s gotten him so grumpy in the morning?

He checks his reflection in the mirror, only now noticing the reddish tint on his cheeks, forehead, and the bridge of his nose. Must be sunburn. His right hand instinctively feels its way to his left wrist, finding it empty. Harry spots his watch on the side table, atop books.

He stares for a moment too long before he bends over to take it and clasp it around his wrist. 

Ed’s waiting by the patio when Harry arrives, a disapproving expression on the man’s features. “We’re late.”

“Fashionably,” Harry counters, wagging his finger at Ed’s face.

Ed slaps it away, closing the car door after Harry. “Still late.”

“Okay, Grumpy,” he snorts just as he hears the telltale lock click.

  


“And here I was thinking you’d left us all here to rot,” Edelie teases as soon as Harry enters the dining room. He closes the distance between them and pecks her cheek, greeting her a good high noon. 

He rounds the space and does the same for the others too, some opting for a hug instead of a smack. 

“Join us?” Aurelie asks, the invite reminding Harry of the night before when his father had _demanded_ he be joined for dinner while he unknowingly twisted knives into Harry’s chest.

His appetite vanishes, so he declines politely. 

Harry makes a move to sit down when Edelie captures his arm in her hand, thrusting a plate of food against his stomach.

“Be a darling and bring this up to Louis’ room, will you?”

“Me?” He points to himself, confused.

“Aurelie.”

Harry snickers at her sarcasm. He nods anyway, taking it from her. She drums her fingertips on the small of his back when he turns around, a mindless act of affection. Harry’s insides warm at the gesture. 

He flies up the flight of stairs, already knowing which room was Louis’. His mind wanders—all the children had to share quarters with one another, sleeping in bunk beds in cramped spaces, so why did Louis get to have his own room?

Why did Louis get to have his own stuff? 

His pondering is cut short when he sees Louis on the mattress, both hands tucked under his cheek, his face relaxed and breathing steadily.

Harry pauses by the doorway, suddenly frozen in his place.

Louis was always either irritated, impassive, or smug, having no in-betweens or grey areas. His peaceful sleeping form is a new sight for Harry, and he subconsciously takes it in. Wisps of Louis’ brown hair shine golden, some curling up to reach his temples perfectly despite the whole mop being in disarray. 

Light dances on his skin, coming and going depending on the placement of the clouds. Harry watches, a bit enchanted, as it hits Louis’ face at the right time, highlighting his angular face and his flushed cheeks. 

His feet bring him closer, the floorboard creaking under his weight. Louis stirs, his nose crinkling before he settles again, snuggling his face against his skin. He inhales deeply, his chest expanding before he sighs, seemingly contented by the scent.

So he _is_ a vanilla guy, Harry thinks as he remembers the soap Louis had been using had also been vanilla-scented. His lips involuntarily twitch upwards. 

Making as little noise as possible, he looks around, searching for a table or a surface to leave the plate on. The dresser? No, it was too dusty and might also attract small creatures. Harry shudders, his mind jumping to eight-legged insects. Nope. Absolutely not.

He’s just decided to bring it back to the dining area when he trips on his feet and plummets, his upper half cushioned by the mattress near Louis’ stomach and his knees hitting the hardwood floors. The food was now splattered all across the foam, the plate shattered into pieces on the floor.

“Ow,” he breathes, the word coming out sputtered as he lifts himself up on his elbows.

Louis shifts, his eyelids batting before his eyes land on Harry’s figure.

“What the f. . .” He moves away, scooting closer to the wall to put distance between them. “What the bloody _hell_ are you doing here?” Louis’ voice is groggy but harsh, husky with the hint of sleep he’d just been in.

“Room service. You’re welcome,” Harry spits out, sending a hard look Louis’ way. How was this boy so unappreciative?

“I don’t need—” Louis’ gaze falls on the food which is not only scattered all over the mattress, but all over his legs as well. He shakes them off, “—seriously, _what the hell.”_

Harry dusts himself off, getting on his knees, his torso now upright.

“Wouldn’t kill to be a bit grateful.”

“Grateful? For what, turning my bed into a taco?” Louis snarks, squatting low and swatting food off the foam.

“You call that a bed?” 

There’s a murderous glint in Louis’ eyes. 

“Before you ruined it, it was. Get the fuck out. _Jesus._ ”

Harry leans back, resting on his bum and his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Should I call Patricia up to set your foul mouth straight?”

“No, call your father. Beg him to take you out of here,” Louis says before pausing and setting his eyes on Harry, “oh no, that’s right—you’re not good with him, yeah? Shame.” 

Harry bristles at his words, his fists clenching and his glare burning holes through Louis’ skin. Louis notices but doesn’t falter, his jaw set and blue orbs hard, rising up to the challenge. 

“At least I _have_ a parent,” Harry says pointedly, a corner of his mouth curved upward. 

The fire in Louis’ eyes flickers, and for a moment, he looks away before catching himself. With an equally dry tone, he replies, “Who probably thinks so less of you he sends you off—”

Harry’s palms hit his shoulders with so much force, making his back collide with the wall and cutting his comment short. Harry towers over him, a darkness on his face. His hands leave Louis’ body as fast as they were on him, almost as if the touch scorched him. They flatten on the surface on either side of Louis’ head instead.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry growls lowly despite his glassy eyes.

Louis’ smug smirk fills his vision. 

“I think I do,” he gives Harry a once over, “why you’re the child who has been neglected all his life—”

“Stop.”

“—always less than anyone compared to him,” Louis goes on. “That’s probably why you’re here, aren’t you? Because to him, you’ll never amount to anything.”

 _“Stop saying that,_ ” Harry breathes, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“You’re drowning in a sea of your own misdeeds, brat, and these?” Louis flicks his hand, hitting the band of Harry’s watch before tugging on Harry’s shirt, “These won’t help you float.”

Louis watches as Harry falls back, face no longer contorted in anger. 

It takes a moment for him to get back on his feet, his expression as vacant as the hollow in his chest. His legs help him glide down the stairs, almost stumbling a few times in his hurry to leave.

“Harry, how did it...” Aurelie trails off, seeing Harry’s ashen look. She catches his arm but he shrugs her hand away. She presses it to her chest instead, hurt apparent in her features. “What’s wrong, _pain de sucré?_ ”

He doesn’t answer, heading straight to the front door, his own guilt at rejecting Aurelie’s comfort eating away at him on top of the venomous words hurled by Louis.

He was out of his head, his primary concern just to get away from Little Rock—away from the blue-eyed monster. He passes by the other caregivers as well, all looking puzzled by his unusual behavior.

Harry keeps walking, forcing his head down.

When he reaches the familiar deep mahogany, he yanks it open, his foot already halfway out when he stops dead in his tracks, the sight of a familiar set of shoes entering his line of sight. 

He looks up, becoming face to face with his father.

“Harry,” Landon utters, his mouth in a grim line.

He moves forward, forcing Harry back as he steps into the threshold. Harry could feel the energy change around him. The caregivers shuffle, wiping their hands on their trousers before coming up to welcome the man.

Aurelie appears beside him, her palm flat on the middle of his spine, rubbing gently. Edelie appears on his other side, sending a supportive glance towards him.

After a moment, the twins step forward for their turn to exchange pleasantries with the older Styles. When they finish, they regain their places beside Harry. 

“We’ve never been better,” Aurelie smiles, ever the diplomatic. “The children are well-fed around the clock and we’re not behind on our bills with your help on top of the government's.”

“That’s pleasing news,” Landon comments, his eyes roaming the space. 

There is now no doubt in Harry’s mind that this is the first his father has ever been here. A gut-wrenching realization crushes through him: his Dad really just plucked a random orphanage to pour his money into and throw Harry there.

“And my son?” Landon asks. “I hope he’s not giving you much trouble?” The open-ended question makes Harry tense again, his body stiffening and his heart dropping to his stomach. 

As if sensing his pain, Aurelie lightly pulls Harry against her. He almost sags against the woman, her consolation taking some of his unease. 

“Harry’s a delight,” Edelie smiles brightly at Landon, a hint of ire in her tone that Harry couldn’t have picked up on if he hadn’t been spending so much time around her. 

He watches as the twins jump to his defense, recalling moments with him he didn’t put much thought into until he hears them out of their mouths. Harry bites the insides of his cheeks in an effort to keep his emotions in check.

Landon nods in approval, a subtle movement of his head that spoke a million words. Harry couldn’t help the weight that lifted off of his shoulders. He subconsciously stands straighter.

His father continues his silent inspection, hands clasped behind him.

“What are you doing here Dad?”

Landon sends a look Harry’s way, a disapproval of his tone and the way he phrased his question. Still, the man answers.

“I’ve come to see you, of course,” then upon seeing the disbelieving expression on his son’s face, he adds, “—and check the place for myself.”

“Right,” Harry mutters, turning on his heel to follow his father across the hall and into the kitchen.

His line of sight passes the stairs.

And there, he sees him—Louis—with his beady, judgmental eyes, trained on the movements of the pair. His stance is stiff, like a predator observing its prey, yet only that: observing. 

His line of sight is just enough to see the interaction between father and son, what with Landon's back facing him.

Itching to prove a point and chucking the cruel words Louis spat out of his head, Harry speeds up to match his father’s stride, clapping the older man on the shoulder when he says: _“Dad_ , how about golf tomorrow?”

Harry _knows_ Landon will drop everything for a game. It's why he chose that exact thing to get him to agree to a day off. With that at the back of his mind, Harry is confident it would be a great win against Louis.

Landon turns his head to face him. “We’ll have to do a rain check on that, son. Your sister’s due to come home tomorrow,” he informs Harry before perking up. “That reminds me—will you be able to pick her up from the airport?”

Shame, red and hot, burns Harry’s skin. 

His father prods him, expectant.

He finally nods, a tight smile on his lips and his eyes staying off of the staircase.

  


Harry left with Landon that day and was given the rest of the afternoon off, much to his relief. His horrible mood hasn’t waned all throughout the night. He tossed and turned, his mind racing. 

_Fucking Louis._

Immense dislike for the orphan filled his chest. He hated it. He hated being capable of disliking someone that much. He hated seeing red whenever he thought of Louis. He hated how much control his father had over him. And he _hated_ that Louis, once again, was right.

It's a miracle he hadn’t crashed the car on the way to the airport with his thoughts forming a cloud above his head. He curses, every now and again, agitation making his posture rigid. 

They normally weren’t allowed to leave the house with no bodyguard or driver, but he’d insisted for this trip that he be on his own. 

He'd wanted some alone time with his sister, the months of their separation sinking into his bones, and although the chaperones appointed to them wouldn’t dare snitch on them, Harry felt more comfortable if it really were just him and her.

He pulls over at a parking spot just outside the arrival area, spotting Gemma walk out, her sunglasses perched on the top of her head, her signature sneakers and dress ensemble on her tall frame. He waves her over and sees her roll her eyes.

Elated that nothing about her has changed, Harry chuckles, jogging towards her.

“Where have your manners gone, you oaf?” Gemma demands, ruffling Harry’s hair and breaking into a laugh.

“Sorry, your majesty,” he bows mockingly, taking her suitcases from her hold, “I was worried about the heat touching my soft and smooth skin.”

Gemma snorts. “Haven’t I sent you enough sunscreen?” 

“Enough to last me a year,” Harry replies, grinning.

He looks at Gemma from head to toe, noticing she’s sporting a tanner complexion now, some lines visible on her hands where she used to wear her rings. Her skin though, although less paler now, remained healthy and glowing. He smiles at the thought of her taking care of her self still. 

“Where’s Dad?” She asks when they reach the car, “—and you drove? You got something to prove, little brother?” Gemma teases goodnaturedly.

“Been a long time since you last came home, sis,” he shrugs, loading her stuff into the back, “I’ve been working on my drifts. Better hold your plaques closer to your chest now.”

“Alright, alright. No need to get cocky and embarrass yourself when we’re actually on the track. You free tomorrow? Why don’t we test that out—see how good you claim to be?”

Harry mirrors the smug grin on Gemma’s face as he shuts the car door, delighted that she would love to bond with him despite her jampacked schedule. “I’d love to, but Dad’s got a chokehold on my time now.”

They both slide into the car.

“Oh no. What have you done now?”

“Hinted you were pregnant.”

That earned Harry a smack on the back of his head. He ducks, chuckling. 

“I’m joking!” He laughs, pulling away and driving out of the airport. “I might have slipped a drop or two of acid into the wine during one of his posh parties.”

Gemma gasps, smacking him again. “You glob! Why aren’t you shipped off yet?”

“He decided Ramirez and Oakley’s dick-measuring session was quite funny,” he glances at Gemma from the corner of his eye.

“They did not!” She gasps again, this time in disbelief and astonishment. “I always knew those two were wild ones!”

They erupt in laughter, just basking in each other’s presence. They exchange updates about their lives while they were apart. 

Harry tells her about the orphanage, avoiding the mention of the blue-eyed gnome, about Niall jumping from one school to another—to which she laughs at, saying she’ll have to get in contact with him soon for the juicy deets—about Zayn brushing up on his parkour and joining local competitions, it was refreshing to talk to someone about things like these.

Gemma, in turn, recounts her experiences in her travels—the places she’d been, the people she’d met, that one fisherman who shoved a live fish to her face, the animal only a second away from sliding down her dress, amongst many others. All these she retold whilst avoiding the mention of their business, a reminder of why Harry loves her so. 

She never forced him into anything, never made Harry feel like he needed to be this kind of person or that kind of sibling. Gemma was so chill with her life, going with the flow without being too complacent, going after what she wants while still letting fate decide for her—Harry could never ask for a better sister.

They arrive home still chattering among themselves, finding endless things to talk about and jumping from one topic to another.

Their conversation is cut short when Landon appears, stepping outside of his office with a pleased look on his face that makes Harry’s chest clench, but he pushes it down as the same expression was on his face not even an hour ago upon seeing his sister.

“Gemma,” Landon greets, drawling the vowels.

She steps into his arms, murmuring a soft “father” before pulling away. “Oh wow, the smoothness of your face must’ve been the special effects on your camera. Looking a bit caky there, old man.”

Harry tries to hold in his laughter, turning his head away and coughing. Gemma nudges his elbow gently, a mischievous grin on her mouth. Harry clears his throat.

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” Landon warns with a playful grin of his own.

“Young? That what twenty-five is now—young?”

“Compared to his sixty, maybe,” Harry retorts, unable to help himself.

Landon waves his hand, the corners of his lips still up. “Shush now, children. Gemma, come to my office. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Father,” she whines, “must you really be working all the time? Take the night off. Let’s have dinner—you, Harry and I.”

Harry remains lax, expecting their father to decline and put work above all else, as he had always done. The next few seconds throw him off though, as Landon agrees to it.

“Oh, alright,” the man chuckles, pulling his phone out. “I’ll make reservations at Leonid’s place.”

Gemma snatches the phone from her father’s hands and pockets it, making Harry’s eyes widen. _What is she doing?_ He thinks, alarmed, as Landon stares at her daughter in shock as well.

“Oh, none of that posh restaurant shite. I’ll do you one better—how about I cook dinner? There’s this recipe I learned in Italy—delicious! You’ll forget your name at first taste, I tell you!” She trails off, heading towards the kitchen without a second glance at the two Styles men staring at her retreating back with their mouths agape.

Harry regains his bearings with a clap on his shoulder from his father.

“Best not to keep the woman waiting,” he mutters, leading the way.

The Styles men watch as Gemma gets to work, moving about in the kitchen with much ease except when finding the utensils.

“At this rate, you’re going to destroy even the cabinets, honey,” Landon comments, amusement pulling his lips up.

“There’s like a million drawers in here,” she grunts as she opens one yet again, not seeing the spatula there. It shuts with a loud thud. She yanks on one, finally spotting it. “Aha! Finally,” she kisses the tool before getting back to her pan.

“How’s the Mendoza takeover coming along?” Landon asks casually.

Gemma sends a quick glance at Harry before answering, “Smoothly. Their son, Arnold, seems eager enough to take it off of their hands.”

“It’s the costing,” the man replies, “it’s getting bigger and out of their control, but they haven’t recognized the value of their product. What a waste.”

“Truly,” Gemma answers shortly, eyes directed at the pot full of boiling water before looking up, “you know what’s a waste though? These strong arms,” she says teasingly, grabbing Harry’s bicep. “Harry, will you please fetch me my bag from the car? I have gifts for you and Dad.”

Harry begrudgingly straightens up from leaning against the kitchen island and heads outside, teasing his sister that with the multiple bags she’d brought, it might take him a while and they shouldn’t start dinner without him. She laughs it off, shooing him.

The cool air hits him as soon as he steps out of the huge doors. He walks to the garage, the lights turning on automatically as the sensors pick up his movement. He spots the car immediately and heads over to it, grumbling about the multiple heavy bags stuffed into the backseat.

He pulls it out—the huge grey sling that Gemma had been carrying earlier. He slings it over his shoulder and proceeds to go back to the kitchen.

He hears hushed voices as he nears the space, so he flattens himself on the wall, his movement halted and one ear trained to hear more of the conversation.

“I know Dad,” Gemma sighs, “and I love Harry more than you could ever think—of course I’d want what’s best for him, but do you really think Little Rock is the right decision? Maybe he doesn’t need that. Maybe he needs more of... you.”

Harry tenses. They were talking about _him_. Gemma is, yet again, standing up to their father for Harry’s sake. He bites the inside of his cheek as tears start to form in his eyes.

“What do you mean more of me?” Landon asks defensively.

A pause before Gemma’s voice fills the air again. “When was the last time you talked to him—”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“—that didn’t involve the business, me, or any hint of chiding?” At their father’s silence, Gemma continues. “I just think you’re not seeing _past_ Harry. I get it—he’s wild, mischievous, and sometimes he deserves the punishment for the trouble he stirs up, but he is _just_ a kid, Dad. And he’s smart. I know he is. Give him a shot.”

“He doesn’t want any part of the business, Gem,” Landon sighs, disappointment in his voice.

“I’m not talking about the business,” his sister snaps, then as if collecting herself, she apologizes, “all I’m saying is... I see potential in Harry. A potential _you_ couldn’t see if you keep your eyes open only to the dust and sand.”

Harry wipes the tears that managed to escape his eyes.

“Got it!” He blurts, walking into the kitchen with his head hung low.

The mood evidently lifts, the tension on their shoulders releasing as Gemma smiles up at him, her gaze darting from Harry to her father. 

After thanking him, she rummages through the bag, pretending to look for something—at least that’s what it looks like to Harry, having known his sister for so long.

“Ah, shoot—must’ve been in my other bag. It’s fine,” she swats the air. “I’ll find it tomorrow.”

  


Harry wakes up, yet again, because of his alarm. 

He wastes no time in getting up and readying himself for the day, not in the mood to get into a spat with Ed or anyone else for that matter. When he finishes, he checks himself in the mirror, noticing his slightly puffy eyes.

How could they not be? He'd spent the night weeping silent tears, his heart moved by his sister’s words and conviction about his character. He knows Gemma loves him dearly. Many times she’s stood by his side against anyone—his father, the judgmental pricks at their old school, even some vicious tabloids that dragged their name through the mud.

Time and time again, Gemma has proved her loyalty to Harry and time and time again, Harry wept about it.

Today is a brand new day, and although Harry’s eyes are reminders of the previous one, he doesn’t let it bother him. He would get through today just like any other day—one at a time, at his own pace.

With that in mind, he makes his way down the stairs with a few extra minutes to spare. Harry’s surprised when he sees Gemma in the kitchen, sipping on what he assumes is tea.

“About time, Harriet,” she teases, using the nickname she made for Harry for when she was young and him an infant, and she’d insisted on him being a her.

“Good morning, Gembo,” he greets back, looking at her up and down and noticing she was fully clothed, dressed for a casual business conference in her matching navy blue blazer and trousers, a simple white silky v-neck under the blazer. 

“Meeting?” He asks, opening his cupboard of sweets and plucking out a random one.

Gemma snatches it off of his hands, replacing it with her unfinished tea. He takes a sip, brows arching at the sweetness and decides to gulp more. She heads to the cupboard and inspects the pieces before returning the Skittles inside it, taking a granola bar out instead.

“Nope. I’m coming with you to Little Rock,” she says so casually while biting off the bar that it takes a minute to register to Harry.

“Repeat that, but slower,” he says, sipping again. 

“I’m coming with you to Little Rock.”

_“Why?”_

Another bite. “Because I want to see where you’ve been spending all your time.” She pushes herself off of the kitchen counter and twirls a finger in the air as she exits the space. “Now, come on. Chop chop.”

They bicker back and forth on the way to Little Rock Home. 

Gemma’s insisting that Joe from the Netflix series _“You”_ is exactly why people trust psychopaths so much—the looks and the smarts something that draw his victims in. Harry, having only watched a few minutes off of the pilot episode, argues that Joe was like any other lovesick puppy out there that wanted to know more about the subject of their infatuation.

They end up in a fit of laughter when Ed answers that psychopath or not, Joe was one good-looking guy, the words sounding much more comical coming from a serious guy like him who—one would assume—wouldn’t waste his time watching Netflix.

They arrive, passing by the prison gates and into the courtyard.

“Some vertical bars they got here,” Gemma murmurs.

Harry chuckles, reminded again of how alike their ways of thinking were.

When they enter, some caregivers take an extra few seconds to stare at Gemma before snapping back to reality. They introduce themselves, shaking her hand as they look completely enamored within a few seconds of meeting her.

Harry smiles in amusement and pride. This exact likability of his sister always comes in handy with business negotiations and making connections, he thinks, but here, she isn't even making an effort. 

He watches as she nods along, laughs, and jokes with the caregivers. Some young children actually approached her, wondering what the ruckus was all about and fell right for her charms.

He chuckles at one of the caregiver’s comments before putting his hands on her shoulders, steering her away and playfully swerving her from the swarm of new fans.

“Now, on to my favorite people,” Harry whispers.

He leads her into the kitchen where he knows the twins will be. Despite having their backs turned, when Harry enters, Edelie immediately says, “We know you’d be the only one causing a commotion in this place, Harry. Now what—” she turns around, immediately stopping at the sight of Gemma.

His sister waves, her own dimple popping out, even more so when she sees the sauce on the pan. She takes a sniff in the air before saying, “Oh—I _love_ that. Is that chicken tikka masala?” 

“Good nose,” Aurelie comments, grinning.

Harry watches as the women fall into a conversation about food and spices, too quickly for Harry to keep up with, so he sits himself down on one of the chairs and observes, a fond smile on his face upon watching his most adored people interact.

Lunch rolled around and everyone has found their seats. Enjoying himself as the conversation around him went on and on, Harry barely notices when Louis plants his bum on one of the chairs around their table, Luna beside him on a high chair.

Gemma already has her curious eyes on them. 

“Hello there, what’s your name?” 

Harry stiffens, his body poised and ready for when Louis spouts some disrespectful words towards his sister. Him, he could take, but not Gemma—never Gemma. He waits, and so do the others, tense in their seats.

“None of your business,” Louis finally replies.

As if sensing that he was ready to pounce, Gemma closes her hand around Harry’s wrist beneath the tablecloth, stopping him from jumping across the table to strangle Louis. 

“Unique. A bit snarky, but unique,” she judges, “but I meant the little princess’. What’s your name, honey?”

Harry doesn’t try to hide the smirk on his lips as he continues his meal, a bit calm nower, his tense shoulders relaxing. He’d never told Gemma about the foul-mouthed gnome, finding no need to since he’d never thought they’d cross paths, yet she’d handled the situation with class and not so much as a bat of an eye. 

His chest swells with so much satisfaction at how effortlessly and with just a few words, she’d put Louis in his place.

Harry chances a glance at the gnome, sure he must be fuming, but Harry’s eyebrows meet in the middle when he sees the corners of Louis’ mouth lift almost unnoticeably.

He blinks, sure it’s a figment of his imagination, but no—it’s real. As real as the conversation between Gemma and Luna as the child introduces herself, _speaking_ , and taking everyone by surprise.

Harry rears back in disbelief. 

He stares at his sister, mouth agape, as she seems completely oblivious to the magic of her charm. Everyone is looking at her the same way—awestruck—watching her as she smiles brightly at something Luna had done, the little girl’s laughter ringing in their ears.

The twins look like they're about to cry. 

Louis, also enchanted with the child, lets some vulnerability in his eyes, if only fleeting.

Gemma says something funny—Harry doesn’t register what, as he was busy trying to let the fact sink in that she had made the kid _talk_ just seconds into being in her presence—and everyone laughs.

His jaw drops when he sees that same corners of Louis’ mouth rise _higher_.

This is a dream, he reasons. This couldn’t be real. There was no way _this_ was real.

He shakes his head, trying to find a better explanation for the odd occurrences and coming up empty. He watches the small smile on Louis’ lips again and the grin on Luna’s. He finally admits to himself why.

Because Gemma was naturally funny, and well...

Because like the others, Louis just couldn’t resist.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry’s mind is still reeling with disbelief when Ed drives away from Little Rock. He watches as they, yet again, move past the prison gates and out of the property. 

The same questions repeat in his head—had Gemma really made Luna talk? What the fuck even was that smile on Louis’ face? 

Harry hadn’t dwelt so much on the situation, as he was _in_ the moment and the siblings never got a moment alone ever since they arrived. But now, looking back...

“I like— _Christ_ , Harry, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Gemma chuckles at Harry’s vacant expression.

“You made the kid talk,” he replies flatly.

“Doesn’t she usually do?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head at her, breathing the word out, still gobsmacked. “And the gnome—”

“Gnome?”

“Louis. He smiled.”

“I would expect so,” she leans back against the car seat, closing her eyes, “I am known for my wit and sense of humor.”

“You made two miracles happen _in one day.”_

Harry utters the words slowly, trying to get it to sink in to Gemma how big of a deal this was. She remains in her seat, eyes still shut and shoulders rubbing against the upholstery, trying to get herself comfortable.

“A miracle is curing some person of cancer.”

“Gnome boy is basically a walking carcinogen, that’s a start.”

 _“Harry,_ ” Gemma scolds, breaking into a laugh, her eyes momentarily opening to watch her little brother’s face. “What’s your deal with him anyway? I’ve never seen you so pressed about a person before.”

“He’s satan’s disciple.”

She blinks. “This is the part where you tell me you’re joking.”

“He is,” Harry confirms, mind jumping to their latest confrontation, “not literally anyway. But he’s vile, vicious, and offensive. He might as well be. His presence alone makes me shiver—and not the good kind.”

She snorts, her lips pulled upward. “TMI.”

“He hates rich people Gembo!” He huffs explosively, making Gemma jolt in her seat. “Like we _asked_ to be born rich. Like us being rich made _him_ poor—”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” she cut him off, a stern expression on her face, “you’re both right and wrong—”

“How could I be wro—”

“Listen to me, kiddo. Are you listening?” She holds his gaze.” Harry nods, lips pursed. “You’re right, we didn’t ask for a pocketful, but you have to understand, this privilege—the parties, the cars, the guards, clothes, basically everything you could think of that comes with our last name is an insult in itself to them.”

Harry opens his mouth to respond but Gemma holds her palm up. He didn’t let that deter him, and as soon as words leave his mouth, she rolls her eyes. 

“Gem, since when is it wrong to wear branded? I don't see why I should change the way I live my life for them.”

“You’re hearing, not _listening_ ,” Gemma chastises. “I never said it was wrong. I never said change your life. God, it’s pissing me off to know you think this way.” 

Harry frowns, a bit hurt at her behavior. 

She realizes that, so with a softer yet still strict tone, she goes on. “I’ve seen so much Harry, been to so many places that I lost count, and things that have always caught my eyes were what we didn’t grow up with despite the glitz around us.” She sighs heavily. “That fisherman I told you about? That tilapia he shoved at my face was the last of his catch for the day. He sold everything else to a buyer that paid him less than half than what he should have gotten, just so he could give his three daughters money for school. He had nothing, yet he still offered his hospitality.”

Gemma pauses at the sharp tug from her belly, needing to breathe deeply to help assuage the pain. She observes Harry, seeing him speechless. 

The atmosphere inside the car shifts. The soft music that had previously been playing in the background is reduced to silence and the air is thick with sadness and contemplation.

She continues with a somberness in her voice, and Harry knows. Harry knows she feels genuinely deeply for them, so he listens for more.

“These people are taken advantage of all the time, the ones who are the most needy, because they settle for what they can get, no matter how small. And while it’s not true for everyone— _God_ , Harry, you should see factory workers, those at the bottom of the food chain... the struggle they put themselves through just to live through one more day,” she swears, looking away for a moment before turning her eyes back to him. 

“We may not be the exact reason they’re poor, but we aren’t completely innocent either. I guess what I’m trying to say is...” she shifts in her eat, facing him, “think of it this way. You’re in a room with multiple people, except none of them are like you.”

An image pops into Harry’s head: humans of all ages, of various ethnicities, all gathered in a small space, like in Little Rock.

“They live day to day, if they don’t work in a 16-hour shift, they don’t get to bring home food for their family.” 

The image morphs into a collection of snapshots of hard labor, sweat running down foreheads and shoulders aching from repetitive actions, or the sun beating down on both aging and taut skin. There’s a flurry of movements and sounds, sounds that only seem to exist in his head as he follows Gemma’s narration.

“And you stroll in with a bag full of cash, or a plate full of food, but only that—you don’t share, you don’t do anything to alleviate their conditions. You just sit there and count your money. You sit there and munch, in front of them. How would you feel if you were in their place?”

Gemma watches the exact moment the realization slams into Harry. His shoulders fall and his eyes well up, and seeing that makes her stomach turn, but Harry needs to understand. He needs to see. She holds his hand in hers.

“Sometimes, all of this could blind you,” she makes a circling motion with her hand, Harry’s face is contorted in guilt and anger she knows is directed at himself. “No one’s faulting you for that, especially since it’s all you’ve ever known. But it doesn’t do anyone good for you to stay in that bubble—especially not yourself.” 

Harry’s chest tightens and he spends the next five or so minutes subtly trying to make it go away—he’s tried breathing exercises, shifting in his seat, even closing his eyes and leaning back, but none of it worked.

He understands now, how insensitive he’s been, how much of a privileged prick he’s acted like—expecting everyone to fall upon his knees because that’s how it always was, regardless of his behavior. 

He needn’t try to educate himself about matters like those. Why would he? It didn’t affect him in any way, didn’t concern him. And not a single person tried to call him out on it because they were too busy getting into his good graces. And with that understanding came a huge wave of remorse and shame. 

Maybe that was why Louis hated him with a passion—because he’s a walking, talking reminder of the shitty system that made the poor poorer and the rich richer, and Harry just hadn’t given so much as a damn about it, going about in his life like any other prissy, spoilt brat—as Louis so eloquently put it.

He’s conflicted. He certainly doesn’t want to admit the dwarf is right, _yet again_ , but he couldn’t deny the truth staring him in the face either.

His chest becomes heavier when he thinks about the twins and everyone who has become closer to him. How tolerant and welcoming they had been with him, accepting everything from his quirks to his plethora of moods. Even when he’d acted like a complete and utter privileged twat.

Guilt eats away at Harry for the next hours. 

It had been an entire evening of contemplation and reflection, something he hasn’t done for a long time. He put those hours to use, reading endless materials and watching every video or documentary he could find. 

He held his emotions back for most of it, needing a break every thirty minutes or so when he finds it too difficult to breathe because of the horrors he’s found, but, he pushed himself.

Sleep finally crawled into his subconsciousness at around half past four in the morning, with his laptop tilted sideways, half on his bed and half nestled on his lap, articles and studies open on multiple tabs.

When nine o’clock rolled around, he readied himself, his slightly puffy eyes undeniable and making it a bit difficult for him to see. Harry makes a conscious decision of dressing down, his ensemble something a lot simpler and casual, shirt and jeans, minus the brand name splattered on the fabric. 

_Force of habit_ , he thinks, when his eyes dart to his left wrist to check the time. He rubs the skin there, the feeling of it bare leaving him a bit weirded out. His wristwatch—the watch that could run Little Rock for months without a hitch—is on his nightstand, sitting pretty, the shine winking at him from across the room. 

His feet carry him out, away from the object.

Harry arrives a few minutes before eleven. He moves around silently, a somber aura wrapped around him. Thankfully, the twins don’t ask about it, keeping to themselves too.

Time passes by slowly despite the fast pace of his brain. All the videos he’s watched and the thousands of words he’s read keep running in his mind, circling back to his conversation with his sister.

As the twins make lunch, Harry sits on one of the wooden chairs, unable to look them in the eyes for some reason. He knows it’s guilt and shame—a lot of it, but there’s something else too. Is it pride? Sympathy?

He’s still, trying to discern and pinpoint what exactly it is he’s feeling. 

He almost didn’t want to know if they’d only been kind to him to hopefully earn some favors, because that definitely wasn’t new. Many times he’s found out that the friendship showed to him is similar to planting seeds, with the expectation of reaping benefits from it. 

Many times he’s been hurt about it. It has happened so frequently that it became what he expects right off the bat from people, and so he did the same to them. He hardly ever considered anyone his real friend, apart from Zayn and Niall.

He’d learned to adore them, liked the banter with Edelie and the comfort of Aurelie. The thought of the twins only using him makes his heart drop. 

He sours at the direction of his thoughts— _must you really make everything about you?_ He asks himself. But he had to know, he reasons, it's important for him to know if they’d just been putting up with him because they thought of him as an investment, or if they actually cared.

Harry prays to whatever and whoever is out there that it’s the latter. And with that in the back of his mind, it dawns on him as he zeroes in on the emotion: _fear_. It scares him to ask, scares him even more to know.

Aurelie notices him. “Harry? Something wrong?” She wipes her hands on a dish towel before placing it on his shoulder, her face worried. She’s always been so perceptive of emotions and feelings. 

“I... I have a question,” he hesitates, cringing immediately. 

Since when does he hesitate? He’s always been so sure, so confident.

“No, we cannot have burgers for snacks,” Edelie answers, her back still turned towards Harry as she minces some vegetables.

He couldn’t help the small smile from emerging from his mouth. He’d been bugging them endlessly for homemade burgers the past week. He perks up, grows more serious. Has it already really been a week since he’d arrived?

“It’s not burgers,” he replies before steeling himself. 

Aurelie smiles at him before going back to work. “A miracle. What is it then?”

With the sensation of pins prickling his skin all over and his heart on his throat, he goes for it and asks, “Can you give me your savings account numbers?”

The twins pause, glancing at each other before looking back at Harry with confusion written across their features. It was a weird question, Harry admits, out of the blue, but if they knew the extent of his father’s riches, it wouldn’t come out as a surprise.

Edelie’s face is scrunched up. “What do you need them for?”

“There’s an extra fifty thousand quid just sitting in mine, thought I’d gift them to both of you.”

They blink at the same time, which fascinates Harry still, but the suspense makes it difficult to appreciate the amusement. His breathing slows, heartbeat decelerating as he waits.

They both seem to second-guess their answers, an unspoken thing passing between them. Aurelie opens her mouth, then as if thinking it isn’t the right thing to say, she closes it again, eyeing her sister. 

Harry waits patiently, although patient isn’t really in his vocabulary. 

This went on twice before she finally breaks the silence. 

“Why, thank you Harry. It’ll be a great help,” she says, her eyes kind and the smile on her lips even kinder.

His heart crumbles, _drops_ an awful descent to his stomach. He knew it. He chastises himself—how could he be so naive once again? Hasn’t he had enough of this exact same scenario? Harry uncrosses his legs, about to get on his feet and leave, when Edelie snorts.

“But we don’t need it,” Edelie continues her sister’s thanks, nonchalance in her tone while the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board invades Harry’s hearing. “If you have that kind of money, give it to someone more worthy or somewhere it can be more useful.”

Awe—strong and powerful—fills Harry’s chest. 

His dimple pops out, eyes watering with the intensity of emotions crashing into him. He stands up from his seat and heads towards the twins, engulfing them with his long limbs. They squeal, the unexpected affection from him taking them by surprise.

He nestles his face between theirs, leaning down to level with their height.

“You big baby,” Edelie chuckles. She pats his elbow twice.“Now go set the tables.” She detaches from Harry and pokes his side. He slips away just in time, his delighted laughter vibrating off the walls.

He walks towards the dining hall, his heart as light as feather with so much happiness inside them. Two people. Two more are added to the list of persons who genuinely care for him. Harry prances, almost skipping, the elation putting him on a high.

He went about his chore, not able to keep the grin off of his face.

He’s about to finish when Louis walks in, so unexpectedly early that Harry’s hands pause mid-air, the last pair of utensils in them. The other boy has a book in his hand, bookmarked by his pointer finger. 

He could feel the palpable tension as they stare at each other for a long while, neither of them backing down. Louis’ eyes bore into his, holding the same intensity as if he were searching for something or trying to understand an equation so complex. 

He breaks the connection first, gaze traveling to Harry’s neck, down to his arm, and finally to his left wrist. It returns to Harry’s face as quickly as it settled on his hand.

Louis takes his seat, but not around the usual table he shares with Harry and the others. He sits down a different one, quiet as a mouse and eyes trained on the pages, the flat of his foot on top of the side of the other.

Harry snaps out of his trance. He sets the utensils down beside the plate before leaving the hall, not glancing or speaking to Louis.

Days go by the same way, the two boys avoid each other as much as they could. They don’t talk, they don’t look at each other—at least _Harry_ has restrained himself from looking at the gnome. He didn’t care enough to check if the other boy had been doing the same, just assumed it was mutual.

Then the whole thing escalated. Whenever Harry was around, Louis would make it a point to disappear. Harry proved this theory when he joined them for lunch. Despite being in different tables, the second he walked in, Louis stood and left, food unfinished.

As soon as he realized Louis could be _that_ petty, he’d been tempted to stand his ground and _be there_ , just to get a kick out of the gnome. But he wasn’t as cold-hearted as that, and despite the devil over his shoulder whispering that Louis doesn’t deserve a kindness after what had transpired between them, he chose to be the bigger person.

So, Harry took his meals in the kitchen for three days straight—meals meaning lunch and dinner, since he’d succumbed to the twins’ invitation every single time, until they needn’t ask him and he’d just stayed. Oftentimes, he was joined by them. 

If the twins or any of the caregivers noticed the animosity between the two, they didn’t speak on it, didn’t prod for answers. Sure, there were lingering glances but they kept mum. 

Harry had also been making not-so-subtle changes happen in Little Rock. He started with groceries—multiple bags of goods, cleaning equipment, toiletries that could last them a few more weeks. When the twins insisted they were too much, he reasoned with them and chalked it up to wanting to eat those food, or using those cleaning stuff, and more. He never let them decline.

Patricia certainly didn’t mind the sudden influx of gifts. 

Then he leveled up and started to send furniture over, additional ceiling fans, some pillowcases, toys, blankets, fresh new towels, everything he could think of that would bring more comfort to the children. He threw in a simple bed frame to the mix, remembering the gnome had none of his. 

Although supported by the government, homes like Little Rock weren’t given as much attention as it should have. Before his father’s donation, the home had been struggling to make ends meet. Always, always on a tight budget. So, he made it his mission to help out. And of course, not only to Little Rock. 

After a lengthy conversation with the family bookkeeper, Harry had taken it upon himself to slice portions of his savings to donate to other orphanages scattered across the country. His father, upon noticing the rapid decline in Harry’s bank account, called him up, both nervous and suspicious about his son’s activities.

“Mind explaining?” Landon had asked him. 

“Don’t the receipts speak for themselves?” He shot back, realizing a second too late that it might have sounded a bit too snappy. He glanced at his father to check if that got under his nerve, but when he sees the passive look on Landon’s face, his tension evaporates.

“You should’ve told me.”

Harry shrugs, gulping his spoonful of cereal. “Meh—was a bit impulsive.”

“Forty-five thousand pounds is not impulsive.”

Landon’s tone was a mix of both reprehension and disbelief. Harry only nods his head in response to avoid provocation. Seeing that his son wasn’t going to fight him on that, Landon sighs. 

“You should’ve,” he repeats, firmer. “Donation to charitable institutions helps out with our company’s taxes. There was no need for you to take it out of your own pocket.”

Despite seeing the logic behind his father’s insistence, Harry hated the way the old man viewed it as a business transaction or as something beneficial to the company. _They’re children, for Christ’s sake,_ Harry thinks, what kind of sicko would prioritize capitalizing off of children before their actual well-being?

Sick to his stomach, he dumps the rest of his cereal into the sink. He keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to get into a fight that early in the morning.

“Well?” Landon urges.

“Chump change,” Harry says through his teeth, but when he sees the determined look on his father’s face, he relents. “Alright.”

His intentions were pure—to lend a hand to these institutions, give the inhabitants comfort despite their weird and unconventional living conditions. If the old man was going to offer his assistance under the guise of itemized tax deductions, then Harry was taking advantage of it. 

The forty-five thousand pounds magically reappeared in his account, his father’s doing, he was sure. Harry didn’t care, he barely noticed it gone anyway.

A budget was set for him, his father giving his complete trust to the teen and his philanthropic fixation. Harry splurged yet still staying within the constraints of the budget. 

He admittedly felt good about it—the feeling of having a legitimate responsibility falling into his hands. 

Gemma had heard about this, presumably from their father, and so one Saturday morning, Harry receives a text from her—all the way from Beijing.

**Your eyes have never been more beautiful. Maybe time to open your heart to trolls as well? Or was it a goblin you called him? Give Luna a cuddle for me.**

His lips curl up.

“Harry, when will these ever stop?” 

He looks over his shoulder and sees a caregiver direct the delivery guy hauling a huge package through the door. He pockets his phone and rushes over to her. 

“There’s a last shipment coming,” he answers, grunting at the weight of the box as they carry it onto the small hand pallet truck. He had ordered so many things that he had no clue what it was.

“Can you take this one?” She asks, already backtracking, “I have to—erm, clean some more.”

Harry hasn’t even finished his nod when she started trotting away. He frowns, eyes wide and suspicious. “Okay...” he mutters before pushing the pallet truck towards the stockroom.

Because of the many, _many_ items Harry had sent and the lack of time to unbox every single one midday, they had all come to the agreement to temporarily keep the new arrivals in the stockroom. It remains to be Harry’s least liked space—the bugs and crawling creatures hiding in the every corner making _his_ skin crawl—but all he had to do was drop the package there, and then he would be on his way.

Just like that.

With that in mind, he walks across the common area and towards the hallway that led to the room, whistling a tune to ease his nerves and to take his thought off of the creepy crawlies. When that doesn’t seem to work and he feels goosebumps rise on his skin, he focuses on the squeak of his sneakers against the tiled floors. 

Distracted enough, he steps into the room.

The first thing that catches Harry’s eye is a figure—crouched and small with the back facing him, rummaging through some of the boxes. He isn't even in the slightest bit alarmed. He knows who that hair belongs to, knows the one person in Little Rock who has a loose tank top in his wardrobe.

Harry purses his lips before pushing the pallet truck in and carefully unloading the box.

At the sound of the wheels hitting the wood, Louis glances over his shoulder, taking a second to look at Harry before he stands up and starts heading to the door. 

Their elbows brush against each other because of the cramped space. They immediately move away, with Louis sporting a displeased look on his face. Harry frowns, wondering what the hell Louis’ problem is. Surely there is something ticking differently in the other boy’s head.

A different caregiver appears, taking the pallet truck from Harry in a haste, and moving past Louis. Harry turns to leave, he and the other boy merely a foot apart when the caregiver closes the door in front of her, mouthing a ‘sorry’ before the telltale click of the lock enters his ears.

“What the ever-loving fuck!” Louis explodes, rushing towards it.

He moves a second too late.

“No, no, no, _no_ ,” Harry moans, panicking. He bangs on the door, turning the knob a few times but to no avail. There was an outside lock, a hook of some sort that could only be opened from the other side. Harry feels the blood drain from his body. “Let me out! I swear to God—”

“Sorry boys,” Edelie’s voice is muffled behind the hard wood, and she didn’t sound sorry at all, “the children have been noticing your quarrel...maybe you can talk it out? Come to a mood point?”

“ _Moot_ point,” Louis mutters under his breath before raising his voice, “Open this!” He bellows, hitting the flat surface with the side of his fist.

Harry turns, his pulse already accelerating at the thought of being squeezed into the space with insects of all kinds. “ _Fuck_. Open the door or I’ll take back everything!”

Louis glowers at him. “That’s big of you.”

“Oh, go to hell.”

“Just arrived.”

“Nice to see you then.” Harry bangs at the door one more time. “Edelie!” 

“When you’re okay, I promise we will let you out,” she yells, her voice fading away.

Harry stands still for a moment and lets the situation sink in. He's trapped inside a small room, with hundreds of bugs, _with Louis. Please God, let this be a dream_ , he thinks. In his irritation, he kicks one of the boxes harshly, sending it flying towards the other boxes piled up.

Expletives escape Harry, an endless string of it that would’ve made a sailor blush. He paces, his anxiety about the entire thing taking over. 

There's no way he and the gnome could hash everything out. Louis is the most stubborn and petty person he’s met, he doubts the guy even spoke to anyone aside from the occasional disrespectful shite he vomits out of his mouth. He really needs to get out of there, stat. 

Distressed, Harry moves toward the window, eyes inspecting and movements frantic. His gaze roams the structure, sure it was the kind to be pushed outwards but weirdly enough, there were no knobs on it—no latches even. 

Harry also notices how this and Louis’ windows were quite the same—the only ones to have glass whereas the others were barred by screen and steel grilles.

“Mind helping?” He asks, grunting as he struggles to push it open. 

Louis is sitting down one of the boxes, playing with his fingers. “Nah, you’re doing pretty well.”

The strange and sudden calmness in Louis’ demeanor rubs Harry the wrong way. How could he be just _sitting_ there, acting like there was no problem at all? They were in that predicament together. The least the gnome could do is to help him escape if he too resented this situation as much as Harry does. Unless...

“Did you plan this?”

Louis’ face immediately sours. “Did I plan to be locked in a room with someone who has daddy issues? No, I didn’t.”

Harry clenches his fists so hard to keep himself from socking Louis. It’s bad enough that they’d been locked in together, now Louis decides to add up to the stress he’s feeling by being a dick too?

Despite his better judgment telling him not to pick a fight with the other boy, he steps forward, ticking his fingers after scoffing. “Your mouth is made of the gutter, you have no semblance of a personality, you’re a _child_ with inexplicable breeding—I mean, what is there to expect, you did grow up without anyone to teach you them, aside from the fact that you’re also a butthead who hates everyone except himself. Had I about checked everything off?”

“Getting there,” Louis replies, weirdly unbothered as he leans back, his palms now flat against the box.

Harry is perplexed. There he is, attacking Louis and the bugger doesn’t even look like he cares. Really, does this guy have multiple personalities? He seems to have a different mindset showing for every minute. If Harry had done this on a different day—or hour even—things would’ve escalated to a fistfight, more or less. But there the gnome was, as relaxed as if he was sitting on a lounger by a pool.

“You’ve lost your mind. How could you be sitting idly there?” Harry huffs, his hand slicing the air as his fingers point at the other boy. “Don’t you _want_ to get out?”

Louis straightens, his eyes hard. “More than anyone,” he says in such a way that makes Harry think he’s not just talking about this room.

Harry stills, for the first time seeing the determination in Louis’ face. He stares at him, observing as he grinds his teeth, his jawline appearing more pronounced with the action. 

Harry immediately makes the connection between Louis and the sculptures he’s seen in museums: stone cold with symmetrically impossible features formed for everyone to just _look_ at. Beautiful yet out of reach. Thinking of the gnome that way makes him feel a bit odd, so he snaps out of it when Louis continues.

“But I also know there’s no getting out of here unless it’s out the door.” Then he points behind Harry—at the window. “That’s drilled shut, and even if we break the glass, there’s no way to jump out without slicing any of our limbs open.”

The way he talked made it clear to Harry that he knew what he was talking about, almost like he’d done that himself. Harry stops himself from asking despite the curiosity sitting in his mouth. He’s not curious, he convinces himself.

“We can’t just sit here either and—” Harry freezes mid-sentence, a little black creature’s movement halting his speech. He feels goosebumps rise on his skin and his blood rush to leave his body. He mentally curses when he sees it move again, crawling against the side of a box.

The interruption of his litany must’ve intrigued Louis because one second he was leaning back, and the next, he was craning his neck to see where Harry’s gaze was trained on.

When Louis’ eyes land on it, he faces Harry. “A bug. Really, brat? Can you be any more stereotypical?”

The tension vibrating over Harry’s body is the reason he’s able to ignore the pitiful name-calling from Louis. Right now, his attention is fully directed to the insect half the size of his thumb. 

“I’m not afraid of it,” Harry denies, trying to play it cool, but as soon as he sees it move two inches to the right so suddenly, he jerks, moving back. 

“Yeah, and Edelie’s not a witch for doing this.”

Louis looks back at the insect, inspecting it for a moment before he reaches out, stretching his torso and fingers towards it.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, the nervous tinge in his voice unmistakable. Surely Louis doesn’t hate him that much to taunt him with a freaking bug, does he?

He starts to rethink his judgment when Louis captures it in his palms, looking at Harry from under his thick lashes.

“Come here.”

Harry is horror-struck. He stares at Louis with a mixture of disgust and disbelief on his already pale face. No way, he thinks, no fucking way he is stepping any closer. Harry stands his ground, hands turning clammy.

“Do not let that near me,” he breathes, eyes darting around to check if there are more of those just lying around.

Louis fixes his stare on Harry, seeing the genuine fear on his face. Slowly, he lifts his palm, his thumb and middle finger on the other poised to flick the creature towards him. 

Cold sweat envelops Harry and suddenly, he’s lost all feeling. The exact moment he sways on his feet is the same moment he curses Louis to hell. He holds on to the windowsill for balance, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

Then slowly, Louis lets his hands fall. He shakes the creature off of his palm and onto the floor before he kicks it away, sending it gliding across the floor to the corner farthest away from Harry. Only then does the boy breathe steadily, a huge weight lifted off of his shoulders.

The way he stared at Louis is a Google image result to ‘if looks could kill.’ Before he could give the other boy a piece of his mind, Louis speaks, his voice tainted with surprise.

“You _are_ scared of it.”

Harry glowers at him. “No shit, Sherlock,” he snarks, finding no reason to deny it when Louis has seen his reaction to it firsthand. Just then, he considers Louis as the devil’s spawn. Only the most psychotic get off of scaring other people to death—to the point of nearly passing out.

“I assumed there would be at least one in your mansion.”

Harry responds by rolling his eyes, choosing that instead of mouthing Louis off. It still remains as a sensitive topic for him, and no matter how much Louis deserves to be clapped back at, he holds himself back, choosing to take the higher road this time—also because his head is still swimming from the fright.

The silence from him seems to take Louis aback, the other boy’s eyes squinting at him like he’s trying to see through Harry. Almost as if he’s trying to figure out if there’s a bigger play to Harry’s unresponsiveness.

“Not even one then?” Louis prods, taunting. 

Harry dusts off one surface of a box before planting his bum down on it, unconsciously mimicking Louis’ position when he rests his elbows on his knees. “Not even one,” he repeats flatly.

“Posh.”

“Barely.”

They fall into quiet, both of them uninterested to continue the conversation. Harry couldn’t stop tensing, always scanning the space for insects that might spring up on him. He shifts every few seconds, the goosebumps on his skin serving as a warning sign of an insect coming close. It’s his fifteenth squirm in the past five minutes when Louis groans.

“Stop fidgeting,” he scolds, looking at Harry from the corner of his eyes.

Harry glares at him. “Sorry—am I interrupting something?”

“My peace.”

“How am I—”

“Shh.”

Rude Louis is apparently back, Harry realizes as he scans the gnome from head to toe. Louis’ posture looks relaxed, seemingly spell-bound to a blank spot on the wall. He shakes his head, shifting in his seat before putting a finger to his lips, concentrating again. 

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks him exasperatedly, not finding the suspense the least bit enjoyable.

“A way out. Now would you please, do me a favor and shush.”

Harry purses his lips with an annoyed huff. Not even five seconds after, Louis talks to him again.

“Can’t you call your driver?”

“Who? Ed?”

“Patricia.”

Geez—Edelie’s sarcasm really rubbed off in here. Why didn’t _he_ think of that first? At that, Harry pulls his phone out, dialing the older man, as Louis had suggested. Ed answers on the third ring, and his muffled words fill Harry’s ear with the call already put on speaker. 

“Kid,” he greets.

Harry rushes when he sees the red battery bar on the upper right corner of his screen. “They locked me in a stockroom. Please get me out. I don’t care if you break the door down—”

“Sorry kid, no can do.”

Louis and Harry’s eyes meet, nervousness flickering in them. Harry stands, unconsciously pacing with his phone closer to his mouth now.

“What do you mean you can’t?” He asks angrily.

Silence, then the sound of gulping and the telltale gasp for air. “You should talk to your sister—”

The call cut off then, the screen displaying only black. Harry tries to turn it on again, only to be welcomed by the image of a blinking battery. _Fuck_. He runs his fingers through his hair, grunting in irritation. 

“What does he mean _‘You should talk to your sister’_?” Louis asks, frowning.

“I think he means talk to my sister,” Harry words are dry and a scowl colors his face. 

So that’s what the text was all about. Had Gemma been in contact with the twins or anyone in Little Rock and organized this little party? This was unbelievably childish and insensitive of her. She’d never made a move like this before—okay, maybe once or twice, when Harry needed the help and wouldn’t admit to needing it. But he certainly didn’t require her assistance now. Not about Little Rock, and certainly not about Louis. 

His agitation only grows when he thinks about how she could do this to him—to her own brother? He makes a mental note to send a barrage of texts to Gemma when he’s got enough power on his phone. 

“Dial him again then?”

Harry waves the phone before tossing it to a box nearby. “It’s dead.” He then glares at it, finding the object extremely offensive at the moment. 

“How convenient.”

Louis’ deadpan irks him on top of everything else, pushing him to being a second away from exploding. He really just wants to get away from here—away from the gnome, from the boxes, from the bugs waiting to jump on him. 

Who even does this anymore? He thinks. This is for children and they are definitely not that. They are two adults (at least one of them is) who strongly dislike each other. Wasn’t it enough for them to coexist? Do they really need to get along?

He stares at Louis, certain of the thoughts running in the other boy’s mind. He was back to scheming, no doubt. 

Harry realizes how different he is from him despite the similarities in executing revenge plans and the urge to not be the underdog. Louis is foul-mouthed, rude and always on the offensive. He doesn’t care about anyone but him and Luna, and he doesn’t even do anything besides mope around, read his books, and be an arsehole. This really won’t work and they will never be friends. He bets they couldn’t even pretend to be—

Harry stills, the gears in his head turning.

“I know what to do,” he announces and the other boy turns his head to face him. Without prompting, he continues. “We fake it.”

“Fake what?” Louis asks, his brows scrunched and his mouth rounding when he utters ‘what’ with his thick accent. 

“Getting along.”

“No way,” Louis was immediate to shut the idea down, not even bothering to hear Harry’s explanation. “I’m a terrible liar and it would be repulsive for me to act friendly with someone I genuinely dislike.”

Harry chooses to ignore that last bit. 

“That’s why I’ll do the most talking.”

Louis faces him fully. “I’m not good at biting my tongue. I’ll spoil this before it even starts.”

“You’ll have to if you want to get out and not be locked with me again.” Harry moves closer to grab his phone, seeing more reason the more he thought about it. “It would be completely foolproof. We only have to pretend this once then they’ll be off our backs. We go back to avoiding each other like we always have.”

Louis pauses, considering it. He barely has enough time to think about it though when Aurelie knocks on the door, making both boys tense.

“Still alive in there?” 

A nervous chuckle erupts from her.

Louis is about to answer when Harry sends him a pointed look. “ _I_ do the talking,” he whispers firmly, to which Louis closes his mouth, displeased but giving a nod to Harry nonetheless.

“We’re good,” Harry replies with his normal voice.

Louis frowns, not liking his choice of words. Harry rolls his eyes at the sight of the other boy’s protest, putting his hands on his hips. The lock clicks, and in a panic, Harry tugs at Louis to sit him down the box he’d been sat on while he takes his place beside Louis. 

Still hesitant and a bit apologetic, Aurelie peeks into the room, the door open just a fraction enough for her to pop her head in. Harry subtly presses his foot against Louis’, and when he looks over at him, he’s satisfied at the other boy’s schooled features—calm and serious this time—none of those looks he gives when he’s irritated.

Her eyes dart between them, assessing, before she opens the door wide enough. Both boys move forward to leave, perhaps too hastily, that Aurelie blocks their way. 

“What have you learned about each other?” She asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Harry inwardly curses, acting quickly and stepping forward a bit to cover what he was about to do. He clasps Louis’ wrist around his hand, squeezing, a reminder to give the floor to him and to make that tongue bleed from biting it as hard as he could. 

He subtly moves back, releasing his hold, disguising it as just innocently rocking on the balls of his feet. “I’ve misunderstood Louis,” he starts vaguely, his gaze landing on Louis’ face. And for an embarrassing five seconds, he’s lost himself on the planes and curves of the other boy’s features. “Yeah, I erm—” he stutters, “we’ve settled it.”

He mentally facepalms himself. So much for him taking the lead in this. Louis looks at him curiously, and Harry avoids his stare, choosing to focus on Aurelie instead.

She shifts her eyes from Harry to Louis, not seeing the objection in his eyes. “And you, dear?”

Harry is forced to look at him again to send him a quiet warning. He prays— _do not screw this up_ , which he repeats in his head, hoping it would penetrate Louis’ mind. 

He’s both amused and dreadful when Louis clenches and unclenches his jaw, the strain and inner battle going on visible at the implication that he should say something nice about Harry. 

“I’ve learned quite a few things,” he says simply. Harry thought he would end it there, and so a proud grin takes over his face. That grin is effectively wiped off when Louis continues. “I know now for a fact that he becomes petrified at the sight of little creatures. Did you know that?”

Aurelie looks down guiltily. 

“Of course you do,” Louis deadpans, and Harry could only imagine the shame weighing her down. 

He keeps his silence, remembering the unpleasant experience. His eyes latch on to Louis’ side profile, wondering how he’d shamed Aurelie and defended him somewhat in one sentence. Who knew the foul mouth would come in handy?

“Now if you don’t mind,” Louis trails off, moving towards the door. 

Aurelie lets him pass wordlessly, Harry in tow. Louis exits and makes his way towards the stairs, presumably headed to his room with Harry’s eyes following him until he disappears. Before Harry could move away, Aurelie catches his arm.

“I’m terribly sorry, _pain de sucré_ ,” she whispers, sadness in her gaze. “I tried to stop them.”

Harry is moved and knows without a silver of doubt that she is sincere, but Louis was right. She _knew_ how fearful he was of the small insects and still, she’d taken part of this ridiculous scheme. So with a small shake of his head, he gently twists off of her hold, heading out.

He doesn’t join them for dinner, his heart still prickling a bit with the betrayal. 

  


The instant Harry walks through the big double doors of his house, he goes straight into his father’s office, his gut feeling telling him the older Styles would be there. When he hears Landon’s faint voice, he knocks twice before barging in, his urgency making him forego etiquette.

Landon looks up from his laptop, gaze briefly landing on Harry before he refocuses on the gadget. “We’ve already been through this. Our shares are not for sale,” he rolls his eyes in such a way that reminds Harry of himself, then he leans back against his swivel chair, “If Georgia is looking for a larger share percentage, she can buy the _others_ out. Tell her to stop pestering me. And screen my calls better next time.”

With that, he presses a button before his shoulders sag. He closes the lid of the gadget and takes his earpiece out before gesturing for Harry to take a seat. 

“What’s wrong?”

Harry ignores the odd feeling in his chest. One of the few times he approaches his father willingly, and automatically, he thinks there’s something wrong. Such faith he has.

“Until when do you plan to keep sending me to Little Rock?” He asks directly.

“Indefinitely.”

“It’s been more than three weeks.”

“Like I said, indefinitely.”

Harry stares at him for a beat before continuing like he hadn’t heard that. “There’s a nice boarding school in Malibu—”

“I’m sure there is,” Landon says with amusement on his face before leaning forward. “Indefinitely, Harry. That’s final. Or at least until I see you've learned your lesson.”

Harry leaves his father’s office with a forlorn expression on his face, the old man answering another phone call before Harry could fully walk out. He plugs his phone into the nearest outlet and dials his friend.

“Harry,” Zayn drawls, sounding delighted to hear from him.

He smiles at that—talking to Zayn always lightens up his mood, and this time was no different. Rubbing his shoe-clad toes against the floor, he asks Zayn.

“Up for a drive?”

“To the stone pit?”—Harry hums in affirmation—“Always. I’ll assume you’re not grounded anymore?”

Harry’s gaze lingers at the closed door of his father’s office, knowing his old man would be working all night yet again, especially with the brewing tension in the board of directors. “He wouldn’t notice.”

Zayn chuckles. “Alright, pick you up in thirty.”

Harry uses that period to freshen up in his room. He takes extra time scrubbing his skin, still feeling the crawl of imaginary insects on his arms. _Disgusting_ , he scowls. This isn’t just a harmless fear he has. 

This phobia of his had started when he was seven. During a trip to the States, he and his family stayed in a vacation home too big to house the three of them. Consequently, they all had rooms to themselves. That night, when Harry had been snoring—and he hates that this memory sits in his mind so vividly—a bug found its way into his mouth, making him choke on it in the middle of the night, alone in a room in full darkness.

That experience alone had jumpstarted his fear of the tiny creatures. He would say it was pretty justified, judging by how terribly traumatic that night was. Since then, he couldn’t be within two feet of a bug without freezing up.

He pushes those thoughts out of his mind and dresses himself, choosing his fancy clothes this time—a patterned black designer shirt that was in the brand’s print silk collection. It was littered with gold outlines of side profiles of birds morphed into a different pattern that fit the aesthetic of baroques.

He doesn’t bother fixing his short hair, letting it dry messily. Harry's mood immediately lifts when the fabric glides on his skin. He pairs it with simple black jeans and some boots. 

_Quality_ , he sighs to himself satisfactorily. That train of thought leads him back to Gemma, who only cares about branded clothing when she's meeting clients to keep up appearances. Gemma—the traitor.

Harry has decided to not continue with the barrage of messages, choosing to completely ignore her instead. She doesn't deserve his attention, even his anger, after what had transpired. Silence was what she was going to get. But, unable to resist, Harry shoots a quick text to her.

**I’m mad about what you’ve done, so don’t send me sunscreen anymore. PS: There are things called fidget spinners. You should get one for your stress. Or a jetski. Whatever.**

Just as the message sends, he receives one from Zayn, telling him he’s outside. Harry swiftly moves, carefully leaving through his balcony. He’s not as agile as Zayn is, but he did do his best. Once, he’d almost been caught if it weren’t for the shrubbery on the side of the property.

Thanks to the blind spot that he and Zayn planted a few months back, he was able to jump over the gate without so much as a commotion from the CCTV. Of course, he did it when the guards seemed distracted enough too. 

He doesn't sneak out much, preferring it when Zayn instead sneaks in, but this night, he wanted to spend outside.

Harry slides into the backseat, right beside Zayn. They do their handshake and the chauffeur immediately drives away. 

“I like your shirt,” Zayn compliments, a grin on his face.

“Oh. Thanks. I like yours too.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No.”

They both laugh before facing front. Zayn has his head cradled in his palm and rested on the windshield, his legs spread. Harry mirrors his posture, relaxed himself. 

“So, why the sudden batsignal?”

Harry sighs, his eyes following the passing scenery. “Just needed to breathe for a bit.”

Zayn nods, seeming to understand how crucial it was despite Harry not offering any more explanations. “No worries,” his voice was tinted with excitement. “I have a surprise for you that could take your mind off of _anything.”_

“Surprise?”

“You’ll see.” 

Zayn is smug about it—like whatever this surprise would turn out to be, Harry would surely be enjoying it. He’ll see, indeed. They pass the time by chattering endlessly, about the news, the city gossip, everything new since they last saw each other.

That said, it doesn’t even dawn on them that they had arrived until the car stopped. They step out of it, the sight welcoming them.

‘Quarry,’ as more popularly known by the locals, is famous for it’s terraces-like structure with white stones—almost like it was meant it to be for this party scene. And that was what it became: a huge space for party-goers, mostly teens (some barely legal but none below sixteen), that had private access to it. 

The place used to be open to the public, but when this family from the North purchased it and turned it into a club of some sort, it has been exclusive since. 

Loud music wafts through Harry and Zayn’s ears. The lights had a strobing effect, switching from one color to another, matching the beat of the song blasting. The bass makes Harry’s heart thump and for a minute, he’s taken away from his world.

At the center of Quarry is a large and shallow-leveled space filled with crystal clear turquoise water, making the liquid glisten and wink at Harry as different lights hit it. 

Sure, it looked inviting to swim in to, but make no mistake, quarry waters are deceptively beautiful. These waters could cause irritations on the skin and eyes. Some, as Harry has read, had abandoned equipment, possibly dead animals and human waste in them. Yup—totally not for Harry. 

Although he _was_ sure that the new owners made sure it was sanitary before even turning it into _this_. But one could never be too sure. Thankfully, everybody knows that too, as no one is swimming in the turquoise liquid.

During daylight, Quarry turns into an entirely different view—like somewhere you would bring tourists to because it indeed is beautiful under the sun. But at night, it marvelously transforms into this stunning party scene where most of the upper class children went to spend their Friday nights.

Looking around, Harry notices a few familiar faces, and some even raise their drinks to him and Zayn in greeting. He sends a brief nod and wave to them before turning to his friend.

“Where’s the surprise?” He asks, leaning in close to whisper-yell at Zayn’s ear.

Zayn grins wickedly, a drink already in his hand as he points behind Harry. Harry turns, eyes adjusting to the low light. He doesn’t register what he’s looking at first, but when the male figure steps into the light, his eyes widen.

“Eh? What do you think?” Niall’s grin splits his face into two. He spreads his arms wide walking over to them, his torso leaned back. “Missed me, Potter?”

Harry couldn’t control his smile as he steps into Niall’s embrace. They pat each other on the shoulder before breaking apart, Harry holding him at arm’s length.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, chuckling.

Niall snorts. “It’s a party! What do you think I’m doing?” Then he turns to Zayn. “How could you get yourself a drink but not our baby? Didn’t they teach you anything in school? Shame on you, brother. Shame on you.”

“He doesn’t drink,” Zayn replies, laughing in the same breath. “Or have you forgotten that?” 

“I haven’t, of course,” Niall rolls his eyes at him before slinging an arm over Harry’s shoulders. “We’ll get you a drink. Would you like one straight from the pool? It’s a bit salty but I’m sure—” He stops when Harry slaps his stomach, giggling.

“Niall, no,” Harry drawls.

“Oh come on, just one sip?” He teases before dragging Zayn with his free hand and facing him too, “And you? A pint?”

Zayn pushes him away lightheartedly, a huge smile on his mouth. "Fuck off.” 

Niall lets out a chortle and jogs in place in his giddiness, making both of the other boys’ chests warm.

From an outsider, Harry and Zayn look at Niall like he hung the moon in the sky, their eyes shining with fondness as the blonde makes jokes and pokes fun at them. They continue their conversation while Niall leads them to the second level, turning in the bends.

Eyes and snickers follow their every movement. People had often wondered how and when the trio would eventually reunite, having been separated for months on end by their parents’ punishments. The three stop in front of a crowd of people gathered in a circle with one person in between them.

“Coming through,” Niall bellows, and like the sea, the crowd parts for him.

The three push past them, only to come face to face with a guy. He stops dancing at the interruption, but instead of looking annoyed or dismayed, his face lights up, elated upon seeing Niall.

“Neil!”

Zayn and Harry look at each other, holding down their laughter. Harry nudges his elbow, his dimple popping out as he purses his lips. Zayn doesn’t seem like he cares anymore, chuckling into Harry’s neck. 

Niall hates being called Neil. 

What surprises them though is Niall doesn’t react with hostility. In fact, he steps closer to the guy, engulfing him in a bear hug which is quite a feat considering Niall’s smaller frame, but he manages. The crowd disperses.

“Boys,” he turns, standing beside the guy, “this is Llama—”

The guy’s hand covers Niall’s mouth, both laughing. “Liam. Liam Payne. Nice to meet you.”

Zayn and Harry introduce themselves. Turns out, Liam—or Llama, as Niall so fondly calls him—met the blonde Irish in his current school, both caught trying to skip classes by jumping over the school’s fences. 

The chemistry between them is astounding, complimenting each other so well. While Niall is loud and a prankster, Liam seems to be quite shy and reserved except when he’s dancing. Only then does he become a monster by busting out moves that take the breath away from the other three.

“We should go on a cruise!” Liam suggests after almost an hour into their conversations. They were all seated on the second level with their legs hanging off the edge.

“I’m game, but Llama, Zayn here’s afraid of sharks. There’s no way he’d come with.”

Zayn shakes his head, already knowing the implication of Niall’s tone. It's a challenge alright. Harry laughs beside him, recognizing the reverse psychology tactic from half a mile away.

“I know what you’re doing,” Zayn says, his brows arched.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Next, you’ll be putting cash in.”

Niall grins devilishly. “A thousand quid says Zayn won’t jump into the sea!”

Just like Harry’s justified fear of insects, Zayn has a fear of seas—lasso something phobia—he thinks it’s called. The Bradford boy couldn’t stomach looking into deep bodies of water or knowing about the abyss. It irks him. He's said it feels like he'd be pulled into it anytime he lets his feet dangle.

“Harold?” Niall asks him expectantly.

Harry shakes his head, smiling. He doesn’t want to make Zayn uncomfortable or subject him to his fear for a thousand quid. He knows what being confronted with it feels like—it was nothing short of unpleasant. 

“Two thousand says I’m jumping in.”

Harry snaps his head in Zayn’s direction so fast, he worries a vein in his neck has popped. The other boys hoot in amusement and elation. He sends his friend a questioning look.

Zayn shrugs. “It’s time I face my fears, I guess.”

“Alright! Settled then,” Niall whoops, “lads, prepare your swimwear—or none, if you prefer going commando, I don’t judge—cause we’re going cruising!” 

At that, Niall starts belting out Smokey Robinson’s _Cruisin’_ , terribly, terribly off-key. Harry stays in his place and watches as the two boys get up and dance to his voice. The fond smile already on his face widens when Niall grabs his hand and pulls him up to join in.

Like idiots, the four of them dance around like grandpas, the only music they permit their ears to hear is the blonde Irish’s out of tune rendition of the classic.

Harry doesn’t fight that warmth coursing through his veins or the high he’s currently in just by being surrounded by his closest friends. There’s also one thing he couldn’t deny at the thought of getting away.

That strange flutter that fills his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Quarry' is based off of Canada's _Tatlock Marble Quarry_ in Lanark Highlands. It is an actual place. Photo credits go to lanarkcountytourism.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty long thing, this one. Also, I'm crowdsourcing—are there any beta readers out there willing to help me out? I've only ever been writing without an outsider's input, so I would greatly appreciate it if someone steps up and volunteers. Send me an email (author.htuw@gmail.com). Leave a kudos or a comment! Enjoy! x  
>  __  
> Song: Angel With A Shotgun by The Cab  
> 

The ride to the orphanage the morning after had been silent, with Harry still a tad bitter about the conspiracy between Ed and the caregivers against him and Louis. It had been a despicable move, considering they were adults—for them to connive against two unsuspecting teens.

“Harry?” Ed calls on him, his voice kind and soft.

Harry takes his eyes off the passing scenery, meeting Ed’s through the rearview mirror. The older man looks hesitant—like he isn’t sure if Harry would answer him if he ever said anything. That insecurity shone through with the way his hands gripped and released the steering wheel.

“Still mad, kiddo?”

It takes a beat for Harry to answer, looking out of the window again and soaking up on all the greenery his gaze passes by. “You look quite contrite for a traitor.”

“Gemma isn’t exactly the easiest to sway.”

Harry doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at him again. Because the man is right—Gemma had a way to her that just screamed decisiveness and certainty. It's a great feat to persuade her to change her decisions once she’d centered in on them, and the fact that she’d made it a side quest to help the him and Louis fix whatever their problems is—that is something worth being concerned about.

And of course, Ed had experienced plenty of this side of his sister, he’d been their chauffeur-slash-bodyguard ever since they were young after all. 

Harry tries to change the direction of his thoughts, making a conscious choice of not troubling himself with that. The storm had passed and he’d weathered through it. That is what’s important, isn’t it? Never again is he going to be locked with Louis. The pretense is over—a one time thing. 

Plus, he has something new to look forward to.

A smile tugs at his lips at the reminder of the plan to cruise with the boys. Oh, what Harry would give for a change of scenery. 

His eyes crave for the different hues of blue, from the vast skies to the wide seas, separated by a mere horizon; hungers for the breeze whizzing past him, moulding into every curve and line of his face; and to feel the sun beating down on him, browning skin that had stayed under grey skies for far too long.

He longs for that vacation, and although they hadn’t yet marked down a fixed date (what with everyone's busy schedules), they’d enthusiastically started planning for it and mentally, he was already there—the idea feeding a distinct burst of positivity into his outlook. Decided, he makes that his secret weapon. 

Alright then, no more sulking, no more fretting about spilt milk. 

The car pulls into the ever-familiar roundabout, and Harry steps out, the thought of how to interact with the scheming caregivers briefly crossing his mind. Does he smile and wave like a politician? Does he do about his chores robotically? He shakes it away. No more sulking and fretting, he reminds himself. 

_Cruising_. Focus on that.

Harry walks in at a little past ten, which meant the children were just getting into their lessons. Math this time, he notes, as some kids study the flash cards with boredom and irritation on their faces. He resists the urge to snicker. Well, there was one thing he had in common with them: the burning hatred for the subject. _How does one use x’s and y’s in real life? And for fuck’s sake, why would anyone need to compute for a fucking circumference?_

Several caregivers greet him as he pads through the threshold. He nods in response, avoiding eye contact and not finding it within himself to accept it all that easily. Granted, not everyone had been part of it, but he almost wasn’t entirely certain who was and who wasn’t, and if he did acknowledge one who was, it might give off the idea that what they’d done had been okay. It wasn’t. Not by a long shot. 

Harry heads to the janitor’s closet and pulls out a few cleaning materials. He goes about the space, sweeping the floor, swiping the broom under small feet, some giggling in delight as the bristles brush against the bottom of their feet. He does it quite a few times, enjoying the combination of tinkling laughter and the bobbing shoulders.

Louis traipses towards him just as Harry starts wiping down the glass windows. The other boy approaches, no hint of hesitation in his steps and his shoulders squared.

Harry watches Louis’ slow stride, his strong thighs brushing against each other as his legs bring him closer to Harry. Louis’ skin is strangely glowing, a bit pale but with a healthy glow to it. This puzzles Harry—just how much pampering is Louis getting in here? _Was_ he getting special treatment?

His thought process is interrupted when Louis reaches him, the boy’s brows meeting in the middle. 

“Brat,” he says as greeting.

Harry should take offense, should bristle at the sound of it, but oddly enough, he doesn’t. In fact, the nickname has become quite a familiar one, despite the usual condescending tone in Louis’ voice. Harry reckons it’s possible he might turn his head if someone had shouted that word in public.

“Peashooter,” Harry retorts.

For an unguarded moment, Louis’ brows move from being furrowed into an arch of pure amusement. Then just as quickly, he schools his face into passivity. Another thing that would remain as a mystery. He’s proven many times how easily Louis could shut his emotions down, how his face could show the littlest of his thoughts, but it doesn’t make this moment less intriguing for Harry.

“I’d overheard them talking,” Louis begins, his palm finding the base of Harry’s spine almost instinctively and so out of character—the touch the gentlest Harry’s ever felt and had sent sparks of unexplained electricity buzz from that area, “they don’t believe your trickery.”

 _Why is Louis touching him?_ Harry’s eyes land on Louis’ forearm before they roam through the common area, finding some heads turn sharply when he looks up from Louis’ gaze. They were watching. Jesus, they _were_ watching. 

Why does it matter so much whether or not he and Louis get along?

“They don’t,” Harry affirms solemnly.

Louis shakes his head, irritation seeping into his features but his hand remaining soft against the fabric on Harry’s lower back. He drums his fingers on that spot and Harry immediately tenses before shifting, purposefully shaking Louis’ hand off and not liking how much he was _liking_ the contact.

Louis’ hand falls to his side, and that seems to ignite something inside him. Harry watches the change in his eyes, growing slightly hostile.

“Think of a better play—”

Harry suddenly chuckles lowly, his palm resting on the top of Louis’ head, startling the other boy. With the corner of his eyes crinkling and his dimple popping out of his cheek, he digs his fingers into Louis’ scalp, lightly scratching. Harry prays to the saints that Louis doesn't yank his hand and mouth him off.

Louis' reaction knocks the air out of his chest. Instead of shoving him away, the peashooter tenses for a short beat before relaxing into his touch— _like a fucking kitten_ —confusion painted on his face.

He doesn’t need to wonder more when Edelie’s voice wafts through their ears.

“Good morning, boys,” she greets with amusement, gaze darting between the two before it lands on Harry. “Dear, come see us after lunch.” 

Harry nods wordlessly, tucking his hands into his pockets. When she leaves, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. After turning on his heel, he resumes the task at hand, mind whirring with questions and skin buzzing in awareness of Louis’ presence.

Thankfully, the other boy moves away without so much as a goodbye, most probably to hide in his corner of the big house.

Harry isn’t over the betrayal, not even close, and the way he enjoyed Louis’ touch was even more reason he probably won’t ever get over it. What even was that? He asks himself. Louis isn’t someone he would ever enjoy the company or touch of. 

Never. Ever.

  


Lunch had rolled around without so much as a peep from neither Harry nor Louis. There were lingering stares, for sure, those that could burn through the thickest skins, but they’d mutually decided to ignore it. There was even an instance where Louis’ foot accidentally bumped against Harry’s under the table. Harry tensed for a second before moving his back, breath hitching.

When he’d finished eating, so lost in his own thoughts, he’d pushed his chair back and bumped right into Louis’ side. Louis’ hand momentarily latch on to Harry’s elbow, steadying him. Then it was gone as fast as it had made contact.

Those minute interactions between them bothered Harry immensely—that much he’d admitted to himself. He’d never reacted to anyone the way he’s been reacting to Louis. It’s unusual, weird, and very unlike him to become so affected over someone—over Louis, of all people. Over a person who had been making his penance more problematic.

And hadn’t it just been yesterday when he’d cursed the boy to hell for almost flicking a bug at his face? Hadn’t it just been yesterday when the mere idea of being locked in a room with Louis shook him to his bones?

Delving into it deeper only makes him wonder about even more pressing questions— _does reacting like that to Louis' touch make him… homosexual? Is that even the right term to use?_ Harry had never questioned his sexuality before, never found the need to do it since he’d never seen someone that way. 

_That’s a lot of nevers_ , he thinks wryly.

But those were his facts. The unfamiliar buzzing in his veins and the strong thumping of his blood whenever he and Louis were close weren’t things he could chuck aside. He used to think nothing of it, chalking it up to dislike—copious amounts of it—but it couldn’t really be that, could it? Not when the mere thought of Louis’ eyes on him sends tingles all across his skin.

If he’d had any previous doubts about his love language, this was definitely the confirmation. _Touch_. It’s definitely touch, and now that he’d been experiencing it from Louis’, it’s a struggle for Harry to admit that it took him the gnome to realize it.

 _Fuck_. All this confusion jumpstarted by a simple, probably unimportant gesture Louis had done. A stupid freaking caress low on his back.

He squirms in his seat. When he regains his bearings, he sees the twins in front of him, hands clasped together with apologies on their faces.

It’s now a little past one in the afternoon, almost time to begin making some afternoon snacks for the children. The sun is high up on the sky, yet it feels like its warmth has been sucked out of it, permitting a cold breeze to run around freely, kissing Harry’s cheeks now and again. He intertwines his fingers between his knees. 

“ _Pain de sucré_ ,” Aurelie starts tentatively, eyes cast downward. “We’re… terribly sorry.”

Edelie is watching him like a hawk, trying to assess the situation, Harry presumes. Almost like she’s built a chess board in her head, mapping out the best and worst case scenarios before she makes her move. She only breaks her silence when her sister nudges her. “I didn’t know about your fear of the insects, so that’s on her.”

Despite the heaviness of the tension, Harry manages to smile—a small one that spoke ‘I don’t forgive you, but what you said was funny, so maybe I’ll consider it’ or something akin to that. The slap on the bicep that Aurelie had given to her twin was another trigger for the upward pull on Harry’s lips.

“I really am sorry, honey,” Edelie apologizes for real now, sporting a shy smile. It was odd to see her like this, as she’d always been the outspoken one; the one with the facade made of bones and ashes of her enemies; always, _always_ the one who Harry had expected to have the highest walls with a good measure of pride to match it with. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have taken part on it.”

“Well, I _had_ known, and it was so very wrong of me,” Aurelie says, voice and eyes low. “I cannot express how much I regret my choices. No matter the intention, the means were wrong. Very wrong.”

Harry presses his lips together, his chest hurting at the thought of getting actual, heartfelt and sincere apologies from strangers who had done him wrong that he’d spent only weeks with.

He tries to stop himself from making the comparison, but it just wasn’t easy to ignore. While the twins grew up in a community like this, they’d never lacked emotional intelligence, it seems. 

Apart from that, they’re exceptional at recognizing their faults and owning up to it—something Harry hadn’t quite seen from people in his circle. If anything, fingers _would_ keep flying until the list of offenders had formed a widely extensive line that it grew tiring to keep up with. It’s a bit disconcerting how these said people would rather be caught dead than admitting to something that would take a few bricks out of their castles of pride.

It is what it is, he thinks. Those who have less actually have more.

Harry leans forward, elbows perched on top of both of each his knees. “My forgiveness can only be earned if…” he trails off for no other reason than to add unnecessary suspense, and he feels like the twins deserved the spark of nervousness that had washed through them at Harry’s unspoken request, “…if you make me burgers.”

“Burgers?” The twins echo.

“ _Burgers_ ,” Harry nods, no hint of humor in his expression. “And none of those ones filled with a disgusting amount of extenders. I want organic, leafy vegetable-infused, red tomato tucked, sesame seeds on the buns type of burgers. With loads of mayonnaise and bit of ketchup.”

“You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” he responds, shrugging. “A small price to pay for the distress you put me through.” This time, Harry adds playfulness to his tone, even popping his bottom lip out dramatically to put on a puppy dog face.

The air in the room finally shifts, tension gone and replaced with brightness and affection. This intensifies when the twins get up to stand on either side of Harry, and wrap themselves around him. With Edelie’s chin on his skull and Aurelie’s arm around his shoulder, they squeeze Harry lovingly, letting their actions speak for them.

Harry’s hands close around their shoulders over his head, squeezing back. 

“Burgers it is then,” Edelie sighs jokingly before moving away.

Harry’s smile grew significantly bigger.

  


The burgers they had made were unarguably better than the ones fast food sold.

It, for one, didn’t contain limp lettuce, or half-bad tomatoes. Veggies were very fresh, as Harry liked them, and the buns were hot and puffy—smooth too, despite the sesame seeds atop them.

Harry feels a bit guilty when it becomes apparent that it is now the children’s favorite snack (considering how the ingredients were a _lot_ and to produce it in a large quantity was… overwhelming.) But just seeing the bigger bites they took and the small hums of appreciation had been enough for him to consider purchasing wholesale amounts of it.

“Burgers,” Louis mutters when he steps into the kitchen, interrupting Harry’s quiet munching.

Harry arches his brows, his feet automatically moving to bring distance between them both. If Louis notices, he doesn’t let on.

Harry’s wandering eyes betray him—moving of their own accord to run over Louis’ figure.

He has a lion’s mane for hair—the quiff effortless, almost like Louis had woken up like that and hadn’t bothered with a mirror and a brush, it was both frustratingly beautiful and unfair. The sides framing his face are tucked behind his ears, perfectly curling around his lobes. The rear’s length reaches his nape, the wisps pointed towards the sky. He looks regal, princely. 

As if that’s not enough, there’s something about the way he carries himself too—confident with a sureness in his steps like he owns the place, as if his legs had never thought of flight. 

So much mystery in one petite peashooter's body. _Peatite_ , Harry thinks.

Then he focuses, seeing Louis looking like he’s about to vomit. The previous constant impassiveness on his face turns into disgust as he passes Harry on his way to the sink. 

Harry watches, amused and intrigued, as Louis plucks a butter knife from a drawer and disassembles the burger. He places the top bun on a small plate and grimaces at the sight of mayonnaise and ketchup. Muttering curses to himself, Louis scrapes the offensive condiments off of his patty before re-placing the top bun, squeezing the burger between his fingers and thumbs.

Uncaring of Harry’s presence (which is honestly, another mystery—how could anyone switch their takes about being in the same room with a person they “dislike”?), Louis opens his mouth wide to take a bite, his lips forming a large disfigured ‘O’ to accommodate the snack.

He looks like a yawning kitten. And fuck if Harry doesn’t find it adorable.

As expected, Peashooter isn’t one of those loud chewers. None of that annoying clacking sound that always reminds Harry of goats munching. Louis is quiet, his teeth working slowly with a minimal grinding of his jaw.

“No mayonnaise then?” The question is out of Harry’s mouth before he could stop himself.

Louis looks at him for a moment longer than necessary, as if only realizing his presence before he gulps the food down. “And ketchup.”

“That’s so…dry.”

Louis shrugs. “I hate wet things.”

God help Harry. His mind jumps into inappropriate thoughts at the sound of the word— _wet_. How can a fucking three-letter word be connected to something so forbidden? A flurry of images flashes through his head—freshly showered, proof of exhaustion imitating the condensation around a cold glass, droplets of water glistening on the chest and torso, _other fluids glistening on the chest and torso_ —Jesus Christ.

He shuts the idea down, mentally smudging his foot on the path of his thoughts like running a finger through an ant colony’s parade. 

No, there’s no way he could possibly look at Louis like that. He’s seventeen, for fuck’s sake! _Seventeen_. Barely legal despite the vintage feel of his features. _Fuck_. And Harry isn’t even homosexual. He… he just… oh hell. Why else would he be reacting to Louis like he does? Why else would he be thinking such thoughts and… wow.

The realization crashes through him. Maybe that was why he hasn’t had any flaming interests on girls. What little flings he’s had never progressed into something more. Aside from them wanting everything Harry _but_ Harry, he’d never felt a connection with any of those girls. 

They’d never… crept into his mind when they were apart, never made him question his upbringing, never attracted him with gentle touches and upward lilts of the lips. 

Christ, even the downward curves of Louis’ mouth were unfuckingfair.

Is he attracted to Louis then?

That thought leads him to look at the boy, seeing his face etched with expectation. The question in Louis’ features makes Harry realize that he had said something Harry hadn’t caught. Right, he’d been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard Louis addressing him.

“Pardon?” He asks.

Louis cocks his head to the side, amusement and a knowing arch of his brows coloring his face. He shakes his head dismissively, a corner of his mouth tugged up. Harry averts his gaze. Louis passes by him slowly, his body heat warming Harry’s side for a brief moment while he takes another bite from the burger.

Harry watches Louis’ lips pull away, moist from the small remnant of mayonnaise from his snack. His ocean eyes latch onto Harry’s, and Harry loses his breath for a beat, lost and stupefied in his place. 

Then Louis’ tongue darts out, licking it away, and Harry is transfixed—gawking at the movement. His body fills with heat, the small hairs on his arms standing up in attention.

Louis’ plump pink lips turn up into a smirk, and Harry blinks, snapping back to reality.

_Right._

  


That evening, Harry and his friends reconvene in his home.

Since there was no way the others would all be able to sneak in like Zayn, Harry takes it upon himself to invite them over with permission from his father. The old man was quick to say no, but Harry knew just what to say to sway him. 

So, he did what he had to—he mentioned Niall was coming over. Landon absolutely adores the kid, mischievousness aside, and thinks highly of _the_ Niall Horan. 

How couldn’t he? Niall’s family is one of the most respected in the country. His background is set to impress anyone, what with his family owning the globally life-changing tech that facilitates online credit card payments. Not only that, they are also involved in real estate development, having risen well above their competitors in just over a year’s time. 

“Two hours,” his father acquiesces half-heartedly. 

With a sly grin on his face, Harry turns away, not needing to give his friends the green light. They were already on the way anyway.

Harry busies himself by being on his phone in the living room. He lets the time pass by playing games on it, a silly app called _Stick Ninja_ where the pad of his finger should stay on the screen until the stick is long enough to let the ninja cross between two blocks. He’d once been too engrossed in this game, he’d stayed up until late to beat his own high score. 

Now, it just sits on his home screen, in the farthest page along with a few more applications he hasn’t opened for a long time—iBooks, voice memos, etcetera etcetera. He’d almost forgotten those were on his phone in the first place. 

He’s on his twenty-third game (yes, he’d counted) when the boys arrive. And they _arrive_ —their noise telling of their presence. 

Niall’s cackling when he walks over and opens the door.

“Harold!” He exclaims, mid-laugh, as soon as he’s face to face with Harry. He enters without an invite, clapping Harry’s shoulder twice and inserting his palm into his back pocket. “Zayn here doesn’t believe me. Tell him, Harry. The end to I Am Legend is the lad blowing the whole lab up.”

Zayn steps in too, his fond grin blinding as he pulls Harry into a short embrace. “It’s not man,” he says, pulling back, “he gave the zombie back to that angry dude.”

Harry notices a lack of a fourth head, his arms falling. “Where’s Liam?”

“In Japan,” Niall replies, and when he sees the surprise on Harry’s face, he continues, “I’ve already asked him to bring us tea when he comes home.”

That made sense to Harry. It’d been kind of an unspoken rule within the group that if one couldn’t come to a big event, none of them would be going. The experience just wouldn’t be the same, they think. So with Liam—the new and very welcome addition to the trio—currently in Japan, it wouldn’t make sense for them three to push through with the cruise anytime soon.

“Tea, and Tamagochi,” Zayn corrects.

“Yup. I’m feeling like a Dog Daddy.”

Harry sputters at that, his lips pulled back to form a dimpled smile. “Ni, how many times have I told you? Stay off the internet.” 

“90’s toys, baby.”

Just as Harry had anticipated, his father walks out of his office to welcome his guests. Even dressed casually, the older Styles sports a professional aura like no other. Any person would have unconsciously straightened at the sight of man like his father, but his friends seem unaffected.

Although, Niall automatically turns his charm on, a grin on his mouth and his eyes softening with practiced warmth. It’s a skill of his, really. Just two minutes in his presence and he could make _anyone_ fall to their knees. It always reminded Harry of Gemma and how the two had grown just as close throughout the years.

“Mr. Styles, thank you so much for allowing us over,” Niall says smoothly, taking Landon’s already outstretched hand in his.

Landon is clearly delighted with the gesture, but is schooling his features into light fascination. Like Harry had said—his father adored the blonde Irish.

“Niall, always a pleasure, long as you don’t leave my house a wreck.” They shake for precisely three seconds before both hands drop to their sides. Etiquette and all that. Landon shifts his eyes, catching another set of eyes. Brown this time. He offers his hand. “Zayn, you’ve snuck in again.”

Zayn chuckles, that night clear in his memory. “Mr. Styles, I’m a phone call away for better security recommendations.”

Landon laughs at that, albeit a bit dryly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then he turns back to Niall, still trying to maintain the facade despite his eyes giving him away. “Heard about the new client—the Livingstones, correct?”

Ah, so that’s what this is about. Of course he’s heard about the Livingstones and the Horans’ partnership. Who hasn’t, really, when it made front page of the Monday paper? The biggest catalyst to the evolution of online casinos and the payment-securing tech company, working together—it was massive, and the Horans’ pockets grew a hundred times deeper. 

“Yes, correct. Blessed, we are.”

There’s a tinge of sarcasm in Niall’s voice which Harry only notices because of how long he’s known the guy. Niall has never liked gambling—saw it as a waste of time and money. _If you’re looking for a good blood-pumping, go cliff diving or bungee jump without the fuckin’ harness_ , he’d always said. 

“Well,” Harry’s father plasters on a smile, not showing his dissatisfaction when Niall doesn’t take the bait. “Send my regards to your father.”

“Definitely, though he prefers handshakes to well wishes. How about we meet—golf?”

“Spectacular.”

The smile on the old man’s face becomes more genuine. That’s Harry’s cue. He taps Niall’s back, silently telling him to wrap it up. Niall gets it, perking up.

“I’ll set it up.” He gives a nod, something akin to dismissal but in no way comes off as insulting (again, only him and Gemma have mastered the art in that.)

Landon bids them goodbye, going back into his office and leaving the three to stand in the living room. Only when he’s out of earshot does Niall let out a breath. 

Even Zayn rolls his eyes. “Adults.”

“What a chore,” Niall agrees, muttering playfully.

“Careful,” Harry giggles, his eyes darting to one corner, “cameras up.”

Niall turns and waves, his arm over his head. Harry pulls that arm down, cackling now and Niall looks at him with mirth. Zayn ruffles the mops of hair on the two boys’ heads before pushing them towards Harry’s room.

When they enter, Niall and Zayn immediately plop down the beige couch, arms slung over the back while their eyes wander. 

“Turning into a hipster?” Niall asks, jerking his head towards the balcony.

Harry and Zayn’s gaze follow Niall’s direction. 

The once empty space is now occupied by chairs—one meant for two with two corresponding backrests and another placed across it. They were black and straight-backed with pads that—up until the present—makes Harry convince himself that the shade of blue it has _coincidentally_ reminds him of a set of eyes. Throw pillows were there too, white with baby blue swirls. 

Between these chairs is a tiny table with the same padding, and beneath the furniture lay a forest green Persian rug with intricate details etched onto it. Unlit fairy lights are wrapped around the banister, promising a magical vibe to the area in the dark of the night. The entire look is simple, and it fit right into Harry’s room’s aesthetic.

“It’s a slow transition,” he finally answers, rummaging through his mini fridge for drinks to offer them.

“I like,” Niall hums appreciatively, probably already imagining what it would look like lit up. He’d always liked lights—whether it be twinkling, bright and steady, or dimmed. That’s exactly why Christmas had easily become his favorite holiday, what with all the lights and jolly music blasting through every store downtown.

“Same,” Zayn agrees, then he turns to Harry just as Harry fishes out and pops the caps off of two bottles of cheap beer. 

He rarely ever drinks, but he liked to keep some in his fridge for when he has guests over, and these two, they specifically developed taste buds for these, which is funny considering these blokes could probably buy a winery if they wanted to, but they were preferential over cheap, convenience store beer.

He hands it over to them, both guys gulping down before setting it down on the center table’s wooden coasters. Harry sits down on the arm of the couch on Zayn’s side, his bare feet up on the cushion.

Zayn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey, I never got to ask you again. How are things going on with the kid?”

Harry uncomfortably shifts in his place. 

“Kid? What kid? You a father now, Harold?” Niall asks, his brows pulled together and a lost look on his face. Harry would’ve laughed if the memory of Louis hadn’t made his chest feel funny. 

He tries for nonchalance and swats the air. “Just this annoying guy at Little Rock. A tiny peashooter.” Despite the words meant to be said in a disdainful fashion, they come out differently—the tone of Harry’s voice changing when he utters _peashooter_.

“They fight all the time,” Zayn supplies for Niall before taking a swig of his beer again. “What’s the score?”

“I haven’t been counting.”

“I heard it used to be an asylum,” Niall interjects, lifting a leg and tucking it under his thigh. “A really, really, really old abandoned asylum.”

“Probably why he fits in so well,” Harry retorts. There it is again, the unfamiliar tone in his voice. What is it with Louis and haunting him even when they’re not in the same room? It was very odd and very unwelcome. 

“Mate, you alright?” Zayn asks, scooting closer to Harry and placing a palm over his thigh.

Harry hesitates. He isn’t sure of it himself—still in the part where he feels the need to keep still in fear of the changes to come if he proceeds through the blind curve. There was no telling how his two best mates would react to his recently discovered sexuality. Although he had no doubts about the loyalty of the two, he doesn’t stop himself from being painfully aware of the consequences.

Jesus, just the thought of them starting to act differently around him makes everything behind his ribcage shrink smaller. And not just that, what would Gemma and his father think? He’s the only male Styles, for fuck’s sake. He would be expected to produce a junior Styles one time in the future.

How will he explain it in a way they would understand? How will he make them see that it’s still him, but with a different preference? It’s like popcorn and flavoring powder, isn’t it? Harry may have barbecue instead of sour cream as his preference, but he still was a popcorn.

_Oh God, that’s an awful analogy._

He pulls himself out of it, determined to push it to the back of his mind until he finds the perfect time to discern his stupid fucking self.

“Yeah,” he answers, then he repeats it firmer, “yeah, good. More beer?”

He stands up to avoid their questioning looks.

The next few hours are filled with empty bottles and endless stories and conversations, some meaningful and some straight up rubbish. They’d gone from discussing football teams to planning the cruise to Zayn’s competition (he showed them a video of the person he was up against) to a flashback of Niall getting shitfaced on one of the parties he’d hosted. It’s a whole spectrum of topics that they have jumped to and fro.

The two boys seem to have consciously made the choice to forget about Louis and Little Rock, choosing to dance around the topic by asking Harry about other trivial things and updates about Gemma. They could tell something is up with him—that’s for sure—but Harry reckons they didn’t want to push him to talk about it if he isn’t comfortable enough. He loves them a little more for that.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

Harry’s nose scrunches, eyebrows meeting in the middle when he feels a warm and heavy body laying over him. He blinks lazily, lilac and pastel pink filling the skies, as Harry sees through the open balcony. Turning his head a little, he spots a familiar mop of blond and immediately groans, playfully shoving Niall away. Niall is rooted to his side, not budging.

“Try harder buddy,” Niall taunts, laughing into his ear.

Harry feels a separate pressure pressing down on his feet. Zayn, with his folded arms laying on top of Harry’s ankles, speaks softly. “Harry, wake up. We’re leaving.”

“See yourselves out then.”

Harry mumbles that before snuggling his face deeper into the couch. Had they really fallen asleep here? What time is it even? 

“No, _we’re_ leaving. _We_. Us three.”

“What?” That is enough to make Harry prop himself up on his elbows, voice groggy from sleep and his hair sticking up in all directions. He narrows his eyes, his gaze darting between the two. “Why are you wearing my clothes?”

“Proper comfortable, Harold,” Niall pinches the collar of the silk shirt. “Who knew silk could be this… slippery?”

Niall goes on a babble about the material and why he hadn’t known that before and how he could possibly throw out everything in his closet because silk was _oh so heavenly, it’s like wearing Jesus_. So Harry turns to Zayn, who seems to be the only sensible one this early into the day.

“What’s he talking about?” He asks.

“We want to see your new home.”

“New home?”

“We’re coming to Little Rock.”

That in itself is like a bucket of ice cold water that perks Harry up. He rises to his feet, accidentally kicking Zayn’s forearm and elbowing Niall in the process. His friends pout at him.

“No. No way,” Harry says, trying not to sway because of the sudden movement. He pats his trousers down, feeling for his phone. When he takes a hold of its outline, he pulls it out and presses the home button, the clock reading 5:21 am. “Jesus,” he mutters. He isn’t even due there until ten or eleven.

The sun has barely risen outside and although the sight is something straight out of a postcard, Harry is restless, having stayed up until almost three in the morning just chatting with the boys.

How do they even have the energy? And—he sniffs the air—is that his body wash he smelt on them? They’d showered _and_ gone through his drawers?

“You both better be in commando,” he says, wincing.

The lack of answer from the other two makes him sigh. They’ve reached this level of familiarity, have they? He falls back onto the couch, grunting.

“Oh nope, you don’t get to go back to sleep,” Niall chuckles, pulling on his forearm. Harry slaps his hands away. “Come on, Harold. Get your cute bum into the shower!”

Harry groans right before a big and loud yawn escapes him. Suddenly, a finger is popped into his unsuspecting mouth, making him sputter in surprise and disgust.

Niall and Zayn’s cackling laughter is the last thing he hears before he’s dragged by the his two best pals into the bathroom.

  


The boys arrive at Little Rock just a bit over six in the morning—way too fucking early for Harry, honestly. But once he’d had his shower, there was no going back to sleep, not when Niall had kept his hand on the knob of the heater. Unbelievable.

Any drowsiness in his system flew out the window when the first few sprays hit. _Fucking Niall_. But not even when the blond sabotaged his shower can he bring himself to truly be irritated with him. 

Niall had quite literally been bouncing in excitement, his cheeks rounding and eyes almost sparkling as he blabbed on and on about ghost hunting and imagining spooky stuff that could happen to him in the orphanage. Harry hadn’t had the heart to let him down, so with a deep feeling of regret sitting in his bones, he agrees to let him tag along.

Zayn, on the other hand, remains neutral about it. Harry gathers Zayn would come with more for Niall’s sake than seeing the place for himself. He watches the upward curve of Zayn’s lips as Niall shakes his arm in giddiness. Seems like he isn’t the only one affected by the Irish’s energy.

From the outside, Little Rock Home does look like something straight out of a horror house. Seeing it from Niall’s perspective, there is a strong probability of it hosting a fair amount of ghosts, demons, and gremlins—Harry's not quite sure about those but he _did_ testify to a gnome's presence. It's unfortunate how defeated his pal would be feeling the moment they walk in. 

Just as he’d expected, Niall’s face falls when he gets a good look around. “Oh come on,” he whines and laughs in the same breath. “I got ready at five in the fucking morning for this?” He gestures at the naturally brightly-lit common area and the children’s drawings hanging on one blank wall.

There’s a peaceful silence in the huge house, something Harry finds that he secretly loves. There were no children scurrying around, no voices apart from his and his friends', and almost entirely none of the caregivers are moving about—some of the stay-ins just waking up and pausing to look at the three before doing their business. They had been too early for the orphanage life to start.

Zayn and Harry giggle at the heavy taint of disappointment in his voice. Zayn slings his arm around Niall and whispers, “Maybe you could work on it on Halloween. Throw a party.”

“I guess I could,” Niall mutters dejectedly, then the light returns in his eyes. Hands on his hips, he looks around, probably already imagining the fake cobwebs in the corners, jack-o-lanterns and ghostly fun he could have with the place.

“Before you start plotting, there are some people I would like you both to meet,” Harry grins, leading them into the kitchen. 

Niall continues talking behind him, some ideas he proposes to Zayn which the other boy humors him with. They brainstorm back and forth, actually discussing cosplaying as the Axeman from New Orleans at half past six in the morning, without the slightest bit of concern if the caregivers would even allow it.

Harry freezes as soon as they step into the threshold. Instead of spotting two brunette women, he catches sight of Louis in his signature loose blank tank top and light denim jeans, chugging down a glass of water. 

Zayn bumps into Harry, and without second thought, he puts Harry behind his body protectively. “Where is it, man?” His eyes search the space, unmindful of Louis and just looking for _something_. Something…?

What? 

Louis turns that exact moment, setting his gaze on the three, expression yet again schooled into impassiveness. Harry’s lungs have stopped functioning. Louis’ usual overgrown quiff is down to a side swept fringe, slightly damp from the shower but still appearing to be bouncy. There’s a faint pink to his skin, telling of his bath, aside from the very, very sweet scent of vanilla wafting up Harry’s nostrils.

“Where did you see it?” Zayn questions again, alert. 

“What are you looking for?” Niall asks, stepping in front of Harry. Then he stops, meeting another set of blue eyes. “Oh, hi. I’m Niall.”

Louis scratches his chin with his thumb. “Hello Niall, pipe down.”

The two visitors still, posture stiff at the blatant call out. _Jesus Christ_ , Harry curses inside his head. He meets Louis’ unwavering stare with a frown. Isn’t it too early for this? Why is he even up at this hour? Shouldn’t he be in bed like the rest? Sleeping or doing God knows what?

The chuckle that comes from Niall’s throat surprises everyone. 

“You must be the gnome. Cheers.”

“Louis, yeah?” Zayn asks. “Morning. I’m Zayn.”

Louis looks lost for a moment, confusion on his features at how these newcomers could know about him, and Harry, well, guilt in his veins, he shrinks behind his friends. Telling them about a “gnome” and Louis is something he had just added to the list of things he regrets doing in all of his life—almost equaling the place of letting his pals come here.

“Hey, can you maybe help us with breakfast? I’m starving.”

Harry is mortified when he sees Niall clap Louis’ shoulder, and even more so when Zayn moves closer too, taking Louis’ glass and filling it himself with water before sipping. What the fuck is happening? Niall starts ransacking the cupboards, presumably looking for ingredients, while Zayn busies himself with the cooking materials—pans, spatulas, knives.

Louis slips away from the chaos, standing next to Harry. His scent is stronger now, and Harry finds himself leaning a little closer to get more whiffs. _Had vanilla always smelt this good?_

“Where are their leashes?” Louis asks exasperatedly.

“Good morning to you too.”

That rewarded Harry with squinted eyes from Louis. “A bit too early for you, don’t you think?”

“Tell them that,” Harry replies, shifting his weight to the other foot and sighing, “I haven’t got a wink of sleep cause of them.” He sneaks a glance at Louis, unable to keep the tone of his voice leveled. 

Louis stares at him, unabashedly, his eyes wandering over Harry’s face slowly as if trying to decipher something before looking away and refocusing his gaze towards the two boys. “I’m not babysitting them for you.”

“Louis,” Harry pleads.

“No.”

“Please?”

“I said no.”

“Come on, Lou, just this once.”

Louis’ eyes snap towards Harry then, and Harry shuts his mouth, thinking he’s crossed a line by the accidental nickname. He hadn’t meant it. This being one of the few times his mouth moves before his brain does, but he couldn’t take it back, could he? Not when Louis had clearly heard it. 

Harry doesn’t speak, his lower lip captured between his teeth. The movement draws Louis’ eyes toward it, if only briefly, but long enough for him to see. A strange sensation licks up his spine. 

Then Louis grumbles, running his fingers through his hair. 

“You’ll owe me big.”

“Whatever you want,” Harry agrees without hesitation, words coming out slower now, the sleep deprivation kicking in. 

“I’ll think of something,” Louis answers before moving towards the boys, leaving Harry to stand alone. He gasps _“Jesus fuck, what are you doing?”_ right as he steps into their space.

Harry soaks in Louis’ strong accent, watching him interact with his friends. Louis nudges the boys away using his hips, then he opens a cupboard filled with pancake mixes—Harry didn’t even know those existed—but Niall is undeterred, peering over Louis’ shoulder to see. Zayn observes from a safe distance.

Slowly and quietly so as to be undetected, Harry retreats. When he’s out of sight, he dashes up the stairs, taking two at a time until he finally reaches Louis’ room. He notes the mattress still flat on the floor despite the bed frame he had purchased specifically for the peashooter. _Stubborn, stubborn Louis._

He doesn’t waste energy to dwell on it. Instead, he flops down, laying vertically with his feet coming out over the edge. He bends his knees and lies on his side clutching Louis’ pillow closer to his face.

It isn’t long before he falls into a sweet and dreamless slumber, the scent of Louis surrounding him.

  


“Get uuuup,” a voice drawls, followed by movements pushing Harry onto his back.

Harry groans and slaps the culprit away. He settles into his side and tries to chase the scent he’s now aware of. He sniffs more of it, enough to make the tensing of his shoulders to ease. 

The owner of the voice however is not as zen as him. 

“Move out of my bed or I’ll hit you in the head.”

Harry pops one eye open, the sight of Louis’ irritated face welcoming him, knees planted on the mattress. “That rhymed,” he says, trying to hide the pleased look on his face by turning away.

“I taught him that,” Niall cuts in, appearing out of nowhere. Zayn just snickers at him.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Oh, please.”

Despite the intolerance in Louis’ voice, Harry could most definitely see the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. That alone makes him sit up. Ruffling his own hair, he yawns before asking, “What did I miss?” His eyes stray towards Louis again.

“Lou cooked us banana pancakes, Edalie”—Zayn corrects Niall—”sorry, _Edelie_ mouthed us off, messed with some kids during class. By the way, do you know what gregarious means?”

Nobody answers Niall, but the kid doesn’t take a hint and goes on, “It’s for a person seeking and enjoying the company of others,” he reveals high-spiritedly, then with a fake sad tone, he says, “the total opposite of Lou.”

Harry notices the repetitive use of the nickname which Louis strangely does not protest on. But knowing Niall, he must’ve called Louis that so excessively that Louis had finally given up on telling him off. He _could_ be that tenacious. 

Louis huffs. “For God’s sake, Niall.”

“You love me,” Niall argues, bursting into a chortle and genuflecting before pushing himself towards Louis. That forces Louis to lie against Harry, effectively pressing them against each other. Harry’s eyes widen at the contact, his palms lift to rest on Louis’ shoulders to soften the collision. 

He’s close, drowning Harry in vanilla and his natural musk. He tries to shove Niall away but fails, the blond’s heaviness overpowering his strength. Zayn giggles at the sight, jumping onto the mattress too and joining in on the dogpile, which only pushes Louis and Harry even closer.

Harry gets a first row ticket to the feel of Louis’ muscles, shoulders flexing under his palms when Louis makes an effort to throw both boys off of him. Harry mentally calls upon the gods or whatever deity that could find him. Louis’ skin is soft and smooth, with planes and curves almost entirely contradicting each other. 

In the midst of the commotion, Harry studies Louis’ face, marveling at the cut of his cheekbones and the pale and smooth skin over it. Louis is all sharp edges and soft curves, Harry realizes. His back is resting against Harry's side—both soft and hard. How could anyone be one and the same with something so different?

“I quite like this,” Zayn casually announces, laughing and getting comfortable on Niall’s legs.

“You and me, Z.”

Louis purses his lips together. “Right, switch places with me then,” he suggests vehemently. 

Despite Louis making his disapproval of the arrangement known, the two boys snub him, sighing amongst themselves and clearly satisfied with what they have done. They start a conversation like Louis hadn’t said anything at all, and that only pushes the boy to be more aggressive in his movements.

A corner of Harry’s lips quirk up. He lets himself collapse on the mattress, propped up by his elbows. Louis falls with him, perking up at the sudden motion. He imitates Harry, his frame leaning into the side closer to him, supported by his elbow while his palm is flat on the other side.

“You just have to let them have their way,” Harry advises, “they’ll tire of it.”

“I’m not fond of canoodling.”

Harry watches with amusement as Louis kicks at whatever his legs could, acting very much like a petulant child with a tantrum. 

“Let me up,” Louis demands with kicks that accompanied each word. Niall bounces above him, his torso lurching forward before falling back again.

“Lou,” he pats Louis’ leg twice, “pipe down.”

Harry is biting his lip, trying to conceal the bubbling laughter inside of him, but still, a snigger escapes his mouth. Louis’ turns to him, eyes blazing with irritation. 

“Sorry. But I’m telling you, just let the storm pass.”

“The storm is making my legs numb.”

Harry chuckles, and he realizes they’re talking in hushed tones, their words only audible in their proximity. Harry nudges his foot against Niall’s back, making the blond jerk. Instead of easing up on his hold on Louis, Niall throws his left arm over Louis’ thighs while Zayn wraps his right around Louis’ ankles before carrying on with their conversation.

They have become an entanglement of limbs. Louis falls back with a loud groan, the back of his head landing on Harry’s chest. When he realizes this, he shifts his body away, the grip of the boys on him tightening. 

“Fucking hell,” Louis curses and scrunches up his face.

Harry could only imagine how much Louis is hating this but for the love of God, he couldn’t feel sorry for the guy. Niall and Zayn might be the most annoying loud people to be with but those were the exact reasons anyone couldn’t feel them creeping into their chests.

With a huff of resignation, Louis lays flat on the mattress beside Harry, his head poised a little above Harry’s shoulders. 

“Nobs,” Louis mutters, his fingers intertwined over his belly.

“You could tell?”

While Louis’ eyes were latched on the ceiling, Harry’s were trained on him, watching, amused by the minute movements that came with his reaction. Turning towards Harry, Louis’ brows draw together, his mouth puckering.

“Of course. The silk shirt is a dead giveaway.”

Harry hums. “Mere stereotype. What else?”

“Oh, aside from acting like they own the place? Yeah.”

A corner of Harry’s lips lift up when he sees Louis become pressed. It’s fascinating to witness—the way his features harden, jaw becoming more defined and lips thinning with that soft line in the middle of his eyebrows appearing. Despite all that, Louis still manages to look divine. Like an angel with a shotgun. Deadly and dangerous, but still so fucking beautiful. 

Harry _is_ attracted to him.

The feeling settles into his chest and spreads like wildfire, licking his bones and pumping through his blood. He breathes more deeply now as the realization crashes into him. 

Is it right to feel this way? 

Is it sinful?

Harry tries to rack his brain for answers. Homosexuality has always been quite a topic of conversation in the media. Not exactly frowned upon, but definitely an expressway to being the talk of the town. Many times, the coming out of a celebrity or supermodel had made the front page of a gossip magazine and Harry didn’t think much of it.

So what if they liked someone who had the same appendages as them? So what if they like both? Why would it be anyone’s business?

But that insignificant bit of info for Harry had built and toppled down empires and careers. If played wisely like that TV star had, the general public would accept and move on with their lives—maybe even find it cute if coupled with a picture. Or things could go bad and ruin the potential rise of that person or the firm associated to him or her.

He blanches at the thought, feeling bile rise up from his stomach—he could single-handedly tear down what his father had built. 

Jesus Christ.

“I’d bet you there are no bugs in this room,” Louis reassures him, breaking his inner monologue, yet still he sees Louis’ eyes wander as if double checking. 

Harry smiles weakly, feeling his shoulders weighed down by the sudden heavy responsibility sitting on them. He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat and fails.

His sexuality can ruin their family’s legacy.

Harry can feel Louis staring at him for a long while, silent and watching. But just that, until Louis breaks the silence with a tone that makes it clear he’s doing it despite his better judgment.

“I know what I want.”

Green eyes meet blue. And as Harry looks, a small part of him is wondering if this chatty Louis is actively trying to take his mind off of whatever he thinks it is bothering Harry. 

“An iPhone?” He asks, then immediately giggles at Louis’ scrunched face. “Or a Betamax camcorder? I mean, you have been here the longest, haven’t you? A vintage item will serve you well.”

As soon as the words are out of Harry’s mouth, his body goes rigid in alarm. Is that hit too low? Has he done it? Has he ruined the semblance of progress with Louis? He follows the change in Louis’ face—from passiveness to the squinted eyes and hard set of his mouth to a barely noticeable smirk. His world stills.

“Ha-ha. Maybe right after you gift yourself a feeding bottle,” Louis quips. “And what the fuck is a Betamax?”

“You don't have an idea?”

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

Wide eyed, Harry asks—“You seriously don’t?”—to which Louis answers with a shake of his head, pursing his lips together at the disbelief on Harry’s face. “You’re getting one,” he says earnestly. 

Louis is indignant. 

“That’s not what I want.”

“You’re getting it anyway.” Then Harry turns on his side, cradling his face with his knuckles. “What _do_ you want?”

Louis watches him, focused as if searching for something before the creases on his face smoothen out. He wets his lips before directing his eyes towards the ceiling. For a long beat, he remains silent, as if testing the words inside his head first.

The silence stretches for a while, perhaps a minute, but Harry hadn’t been paying attention to the time. He shares the quiet instead, busying himself with counting the freckles on Louis’ cheeks and nose. _Three... four..._

With a deep exhale, Louis breaks his mental counting.

“I want...”

His voice is small, almost uncertain, and Harry is filled with an overwhelming urge to succumb to his wishes. All of them, despite not knowing what they are. Fucking crazy.

“I want out.” Louis sounds firm now, more sure, and he gets the point across by meeting Harry’s gaze. 

Inside Harry’s head, the gears are turning. Louis wants out, but where would he go? How would he support himself? He’s seventeen, inexperienced, and with no educational background aside from the classes in Little Rock. Will that leave him in the streets? A shudder goes through his body at the horrors Louis might come across with if he leaves right at this moment. 

Louis must’ve seen the conflict in Harry’s expression. He turns away, hiding the twitch of his mouth. “Not permanently, frogface. Just a day.”

“Just a day.”

“Just one,” Louis breathes, eyelids fluttering close. 

Harry takes in the sight of him like this—peaceful and unbothered yet with the slightest hint of a frown on his lips. Harry faces the ceiling himself, taking even breaths.

Will he need Patricia’s permission? What if she says no? Will he have to kidnap Louis just to pay off his debt? The mere thought of it reaching his father makes him uncomfortable. How will he explain it to him? Is this what they call a _coup d'état?_

Niall and Zayn’s boisterous laughter is the only thing that brings him back to the present. Right, they were still here. With his friends’ noise in the background and Louis’ body heat from being so close to him, he shuts his eyes, all his previous thoughts now flushed down the drain. He has to keep his word.

“I’ll make it happen,” he promises softly.

He feels Louis’ elbow press against his, and he waits, waits for Louis to move it away because surely he doesn’t want Harry’s skin on his, does he? He bides his time, for ten seconds, a minute, an eternity, but it doesn’t happen. Peashooter doesn't pull away. 

So there Louis is, right beside him, features going lax as he snoozes. Harry, on the other hand, is on a mattress on the floor with his best mates holding Louis down, laughing to themselves. Harry's gaze falls on their touching elbows.

He couldn’t hide the twitching of his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you _thank you_ for all the new kudos and comments. I see them all, and they really keep me going. So sorry this took a while. Okay, maybe a long while. Hehe enjoy almost 20k words!

Something had changed since that afternoon. It seems that the promise of getting Louis out has slightly altered his demeanor towards Harry. They’re not friendly, no, but they’d somehow… tolerated each other better.

Louis had maintained his disinterest towards the events at Little Rock, but he’d grown more physically present. He’s been staying in the dining room longer than he usually does and surprisingly has stopped hiding out in his room during breaks. It’s quite a sight to see—the incremental unfolding of a peashooter.

Harry holds in a giggle. Sounds like a book title.

He observes Louis from a distance, how the rays beat down on his skin as he lays on the grass in the lawn, a book cradled in his hand.

Parts of Louis’ brown hair shine a shade of gold so light that it almost appears blonde from afar. Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. His attraction to Louis has absolutely nothing to do with it—no, okay, maybe a little, a tiny tiny bit—but mostly because he couldn’t fight the need to commit that to his memory.

It’s like watching a movie, he thinks. It’s like coming across a part of it that just… blows you away so much that you feel the overwhelming urge to keep a snapshot of that for yourself, just to preserve the scene. Except, this isn’t a film and Harry doesn’t have a way to take a snapshot that won’t damn him as creepy.

He forces his eyes away from the window, attention on the twins now who are currently busy making sweet bread. Harry knows to stay away from that one. He captures his lip between his teeth instead, mind whirring.

The twins move around, almost synchronic in their movements.

“So,” Harry begins, propping his chin up with his hand, “Suppose I were admitted here…”

“Admitted?” Edelie talks over him, snorting. “This is not a mental institution, Harry.”

“Right,” he mutters, suddenly embarrassed and cautious of offending the two women. “So um… surrendered? Dropped off? I’m sorry, I don’t know which words to use. Please forget I said anything.”

Aurelie laughs, light and bright. “Admitted is fine,” she says, bumping her hip to her twin’s. They share a chuckle, and Edelie sends a wink to Harry. Aurelie prompts him by glancing at him over her shoulder, brows arched.

Harry waits for a moment before starting over.

“Suppose I were admitted here—hypothetically—and should I maybe… want to go out for a day. How… what do you suggest I do—hypothetically?” He asks messily, fingers nervously tapping on the tabletop.

Edelie turns to him slowly. “I suggest you do no such thing,” she answers simply. “Runaways give us enough trouble, but the real stress falls on the kid. Either they’re returned here and are watched more closely or sent to a highly secure living environment. You don’t want that to happen, do you? I mean, hypothetically,” she says pointedly.

Harry stills, the mere idea lodging something in his throat. No, he _definitely_ doesn’t want that. Had that been the reason why Louis hadn’t escaped? Is it because he fears the consequences?

He leans forward. “Even just for a day?”

“Harry, what is this?” Aurelie asks, stopping her movements to look at him suspiciously. “Why are you asking such things?”

“It’s only hypothetical.”

Harry shrugs before standing and stretching, an excuse to not look them in the eyes. Although preferential to him, Harry wouldn’t completely entrust Louis’ getaway to the twins—they are, after all, still working for the orphanage. Plus, they did just team up with his sister to scheme against him. With that in his head, he steps out of the kitchen.

His begins walking, no specific agenda or place in mind, just to get his gears turning.

If the twins hadn’t been supportive of it, he’s sure neither will Patricia. There has to be some sort of play here—something that could pose no trouble for both Harry and Louis. Perhaps he’ll need the boys’ help on this one. Niall for sure knows a thing or two about creativity.

Only when Louis is in front of him with raised brows does he realize that he’d subconsciously made his way to the boy. Harry flops down a safe distance from him, forearms over his eyes and a groan erupting from his throat.

Harry can feel him looking but he remains silent, thinking. Should he sneak Louis out? How would that even work? Lights out is at nine in the evening and the buzz starts at around seven in the morning. That’s roughly ten hours.

Harry peeks from under his forearms, enough to look at the other boy. His pulse skips at the sight of Louis’ gaze already on him— _staring_ with a curious expression on his face, frown lines not present.

“Ten hours, from lights out to before the day starts,” Harry proposes, his lips pursed.

It takes Louis a moment before he answers. “A day. That’s what I said.”

Despite the look on his face, something about Louis’ tone isn’t as stern, making Harry freeze in his place. Louis’ position has put the sun behind him, creating an ethereal glow surrounding his frame that reminds Harry of the first time he had seen him this way. Seems so long ago, but the sight isn’t in any way less stunning.

He watches, entranced, as light and shadows dance on Louis’ face. His eyes aren’t even their usual shade of blue. They’re light—too light in fact, shockingly crystalline, and if Harry had been a completely different person and met Louis, he’d have fallen for this beautiful boy. Harry blinks and tries to bring himself back to the present.

“But it’s too risky, Lou,” he argues, almost whining.

Then he places his forearm over his eyes again, partly to shield himself from the glare of the sun, but mostly to also hold himself back from swimming in a sea of _Louis_.

Silence fills the space between them—new but not uncomfortable. And Harry is thinking, thinking, thinking. Then, Louis breaks the quiet, his voice soft and low, carefree.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

It shouldn’t rub Harry in a certain way—shouldn’t make him believe that Louis had a semblance of faith in him, no matter the size of the smidge. But it does, and it makes his chest swell. _So this is how it feels to be believed in_ , he speculates, the thumping in his heart heavier.

It’s different than when his father had entrusted the charity project to him. Then, it had been with leniency and expectations. He’d been closely monitored too despite the freedom to spend. It had felt like someone had been breathing down his neck, watching— _waiting_ —for mistakes, and the second he commits one, the entire thing was sure to be snatched away from his hands.

But this... this feels like Louis has put his blind faith on him.

Harry uses his peripherals, expecting to see the other boy still looking at him. There’s a brief disappointment in his chest when he sees Louis facing skywards, too engrossed in his book.

So Harry lets his eyes linger for a bit, absorbing the other boy’s side profile as subtly as he could—curves and lines, dips and wrinkles. What he didn’t take into account is Louis’ keen attention to detail.

And so when Louis mutters ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer,’ Harry’s eyes dart heavenwards, a light pink tinting his cheeks.

  


“So who is this kid again?” Liam asks, his video feed glitching as he moves to gulp down a beer.

“Louis,” Niall replies, the ‘ooh’ prolonged as if cooing.

Zayn’s video shows him in a tattoo parlor—at ten in the evening, his arm outstretched as the artist presses the machine against the inside of it. “He’s… great. Pissy, that one. Niall takes pleasure from annoying him,” he finishes with a chuckle, hissing when the artist hit a particular spot.

Liam leans nearer towards the camera, squinting his eyes, and Harry could almost positively tell that he’s trying to take a closer look at Zayn.

Harry tries to hide his smirk before rolling his shoulders. “Focus. How do I take him out for twenty-four hours without alarming anyone?”

“Kidnapping.”

Niall’s deadpanned response makes Harry giggle.

“I said not alarming anyone.”

“Ah—” Niall wags his finger at the camera, “but the police isn’t just anyone.”

Zayn laughs, the action making his face scrunch and eyes narrow into slits. Liam chuckles too, his mouth opening a fraction. Harry shakes his head in fake exasperation.

“Truly Harold,” Niall insists, “desperate times, you know.”

“Stop shitting on him,” Zayn tells him off playfully, “Harry’s struggling enough as he is.”

The boys continue to tease him at his expense, finding more and more things to add to their commentary about his dilemma. He jokes along with them, oftentimes shifting the topic among the other three, but they somehow always find their way back to him.

“Shut up, Neil,” Harry finally says, no hint of seriousness in his voice.

Zayn cackles at that while Niall and Liam pout at their cameras.

“You hadn’t told me you hated being called Neil,” Liam sulks, looking a mix between guilty and playful. “Honestly, lad, you should have said.”

“I don’t mind,” Niall chortles.

Liam smiles fondly at him before shifting in his seat. “Oh, right, Harry, I’ve thought about it. You’re looking to not alarm anyone, yeah?” Harry nods in response, alert now. “Well then, tell your Dad. Find a reason why this bloke Louis should come with you and have the old man approve of it. No mess, no constraints. Honestly will go a long way.”

Harry’s eyes widen in understanding. _Right_ , it wouldn’t be much of a scandal if his father knew. And, as much of a power abuse it might be, his father held influence over the orphanage. If such thing is approved by Landon, there would be little to no issues, wouldn’t there? It’s quite plausible.

Harry is cut off before he could agree.

“That’s not gonna work,” Niall counters, and Zayn becomes quiet, the silent buzz of the machine the only sound coming from his side.

That earns a frown from Liam. “Why not?"

“Uh, one,” he ticks a finger, “Harold’s dad isn’t the convincing type. Two, what could Harry here say for an excuse? A blasted juvenile convention?” Niall finishes with a snort.

“Ease up,” Zayn mutters and Harry watches with wonder as Liam’s face softens for a moment. “What about a skills training?”

“Or a last wish. Like the one they do for terminal kids. Make-A-Wish, is it?” Liam pitches too, leaning back against his couch, his phone angled over his head.

“So we’re painting Lou as a sickly worm. Harold—how’s his acting?”

Niall’s question makes Harry think back to his and Louis’ pretense. Granted, the caregivers hadn’t fully believed them—presumably because they knew about the history of the pair, but... if a total outsider were to be shoved the same narrative without previous knowledge, there was a high probability of it being believable.

Plus, Louis had done quite well, hadn’t he? He had bitten his tongue enough to not spark any more suspicion.

“Decent,” Harry answers after a while, a smirk forming on his lips.

“Decent is not going to cut it,” Zayn speaks up. “He’ll see right through it.”

“But when will Louis ever meet my Dad?” Harry asks rhetorically. His father might never come back to Little Rock _but_ there might be a possibility of gossip going about. What if he asks Patricia or anyone else about a terminally ill kid that Harry had taken outside? All will surely go to shit. Who knows what that would do to Louis? Or to him?

“We can’t do the Make-A-Wish on Louis,” he finally decides, “too many loopholes. We need something more simple. More sensible.”

Everybody becomes quiet, minds set on helping him. His own head spins with schemes and instances he could play off to avoid complications.

“Oh, Harold, Harold, _Harold_ ,” Niall begins, breaking into a chuckle. He covers his mouth with his hand, and then he giggles, clearly delighted with what he has come up with. Harry watches in amusement when Niall does his signature jog in place—while seated, mind you. He sees the other boys watching the blond, mirroring his giddiness.

Harry purses his lips to stop himself from grinning. God, Niall was contagious.

“Spit it out,” Harry breaths and laughs in the same breath.

Niall’s head fills his video feedback when he gets his phone camera up and close to his face. “Take him with us!” He explodes gleefully, his laugh lines showing.

Zayn perks up. “With us?”

“What, you mean cruising?” Liam rears back, the line in the middle of his brows appearing. Without waiting for Niall to confirm, he blanks out, staring at the distance. “I’d love that, actually—love to meet the kid.”

“This is gonna be a mess, isn’t it?” Zayn mutters, a corner of his mouth quirking up.

Harry ignores the two other boys, focusing on Niall. “How is that the best you’ve come up with?”

“Because,” Niall drawls, “he’s leaving Little Rock soon, right? And they’re usually given like… an opportunity to build a life for themselves after Little Rock. So, you tell him I met Lou and offered him an internship in Pop’s company or something and I invited him to get a feel of the place. Voila.”

Harry, Zayn, and Liam are listening intently now. Niall resumes the previous distance between his face and the camera, smug. “I’m a genius, really.”

Yes. _Yes_. Surely, it’s a perfectly infallible plan. Neither Patricia nor the other caregivers would dare stand in the way of a betterment of a child after their supervision. And knowing that his father absolutely worships Niall’s family, the idea of Harry coming along to this ‘trip’ would delight the old man. He considers the idea—finding more and more reason the deeper he thinks about it.

But then again…

“And if we get caught? What do we say?” He questions the three.

"If," Niall snorts, " _if_ we get caught.”

“If,” Zayn, agrees, smirking.

Liam catches on, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “If is good.”

The four share a laugh before falling into a conversation about their planned cruise.

  


The day after, Harry tries to get Louis alone to discuss it. It’s a feat, considering the twins had probably caught wind of Harry’s plan and had been trying _so hard_ to keep them apart. 

Every time Harry steps an inch closer to Louis, they somehow find a way to pull him back—asking him random questions, telling him to help out on chores. He’d thought nothing of it at first, until it became blatantly obvious.

Harry had finally gotten tired of it when afternoon break came around. So with a determined look on his face, he slips out of the kitchen right after answering one of their endless questions.

He spots Louis across the common area, pencil cradled between his thumb and forefinger and a bond paper flat on the floor. He’s sitting down, knees folded and waist bent forward while drawing. 

Harry approaches him then, cautious in his step, almost like approaching a large and wild animal—except the last thing Louis is is large—he’s so freaking tiny and _compact_ , and looking exceptionally domestic barefooted and in his too-big-of-a-jumper, sweater paws peeking out from under the fabric. 

Louis’ eyes are on him now, the grip on the pencil loosening until the object is flat on top of the paper. Harry tries to peek at the sketch, but just as he cranes his neck, Louis flips the sheet upside down, brows raised. “Need something?” 

“I need to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

Harry lets his eyes travel towards the kitchen, sees the twins’ curious gazes and then refocuses on Louis. “Not here,” he mutters, rocking on the balls of his feet.

Louis lets out a sigh, getting on his knees and gathering his things. Then, he straightens up and jerks his head. “Follow me.”

Harry does. Louis makes his way up the stairs, towards his quarters where he wordlessly pushes the windows wide open, letting cold breeze enter the room. Harry shivers a little, and it might just be his imagination, but Louis notices, and he pulls on it to close it a fraction.

“What is it?” Louis asks, his back to the open window.

Harry lowers his head, looking up at Louis from under his lashes. “Do you have anything planned for that specific day?” Louis responds by shaking his head. Harry clears his throat. “None at all? Nothing?”

“What are you on about, frogface?” 

Harry stares at Louis’ squinted eyes for a moment too long. He’s going to say no, Harry could feel it in his bones. Because why would Louis want to spend an entire twenty-four hours with Harry and his friends when he could spend it alone in God knows where, doing God knows what? He probably has something already planned too, something that he doesn’t want Harry to know. 

This is stupid. He shouldn’t have pushed through with this.

“Earth to frogface.”

Louis’ voice snaps him out of his thoughts. His eyes land on the other boy’s face, seeing mild amusement mixed with a tinge of irritation. _Only Louis_ , he thinks, _only Louis could mold opposites together without making it look chaotic._

“Nevermind,” Harry answers, biting his lip, “forget I said anything.”

Louis glowers at him and the sight unexpectedly makes a heavy feeling sit on his chest. “Do not chicken out on me. Tell me.”

“It’s stupid.”

“No,” Louis answers almost immediately, his voice rough. “What you’re doing is stupid.”

Harry hesitates, weighing his choices. Louis’ gaze is fixed on him, creating a tingle on his skin that is completely unfamiliar but strangely isn’t unwelcome. They hold each other’s eyes, two seconds, five, ten. Louis doesn’t let up. So, defeated, Harry sighs.

“How do you feel about going on a cruise?”

Louis’ features slacken. “You mean on a ship? In the middle of the sea?”

“I wasn’t aware there were any other meanings to ‘going on a cruise,’” Harry mutters.

Louis rolls his eyes before squinting them in suspicion. “I’m assuming it won’t just be myself?” 

“Niall, Zayn, Liam and myself will be present as well.”

Harry observes the drastic change in Louis’ expression. The other boy squeezes his eyes shut, tilts his chin up and groans, his adam’s apple bobbing. Louis looks pensive for a moment, his hands on his hips. That action defines his figure—so absolutely obscene and unreal (because how could a teenage boy like Louis have that body shape?)—and it takes Harry’s breath away.

This is going to be the death of him.

He wills himself to look away, mentally tracing the curves on the floor instead. Right, Harry. Focus on the floorboards. They’re entirely safe to look at, not a foul mouth on them. No blue eyes. No high cheekbones. 

Every second passing makes Harry more and more anxious about Louis’ response. His previous certainty of the other boy’s refusal diminishes as the clock ticks—that doesn’t make him any less nervous about it though. Surely, if Louis takes this long to decide, that must mean he’s actually considering the idea.

Harry looks everywhere but in Louis’ direction as he tips his chin upwards. One of Louis’ sweater paws find its way to his chin, scratching gently. 

Then, finally, Louis meets his gaze. “That or nothing?”

“That or nothing,” Harry nods, “unless you come up with something yourself.”

“How do we even make it work? Why do you guys have to be with me?”

Harry leans against the dresser, lowers his voice to a whisper. “We’re your front. The idea is you have a supposed internship in Niall’s family business—something like that.”

“And what do they think about it?”

“The twins definitely aren’t supportive,” Harry answers outright, remembering the means the twins had to go through to keep he and Louis from discussing anything together. How could they go from wanting the two to get along to actually try to keep them apart? 

“I meant Niall and the others,” Louis clarifies.

Harry blinks. For a short moment, he sees insecurity flicker in Louis’ features, and only then does it dawn on him that Louis is dense—incredibly so—that he hasn’t realized that both Niall and Zayn are helplessly endeared by him. 

Ever since meeting Louis, the boys had been endlessly pestering Harry about when they could visit Little Rock again to see the lad. Apparently, Louis’ irritability hasn’t daunted them away. 

Their fondness of the peashooter made itself more known when Niall had proposed he come with them. Perhaps that was the exact reason he thought of it in the first place—so he could hang around Louis as well. Plus, who’s to say the internship was to remain a bluff? Knowing his mate's impulsive nature, he might just go right ahead and make it happen for real. 

“Niall came up with it,” Harry finally answers him.

Louis’ face goes soft, and a smirk tugs the corner of his lips up. Harry is sparked with a strong wave of envy—or is it jealousy?—at the idea of Niall and Louis’ budding friendship. He’d never felt that before, not even when Niall and Zayn had interacted so closely. So with that weird feeling in his stomach and the subconscious urge to up Niall in Louis’ short list of amusing people, he juts his chin.

“A condition though,” he starts, tone confident enough to not ignite suspicion. But Louis looks at him curiously, with wide blue eyes and jaw set, and all his fearlessness flies out of the window. “You… erm—” Harry scrambles for something, the ‘ _what are you on about, frogface?_ ’ on a loop in his head, ”—you have to wear the clothes I give you,” he blurts.

_Fuck._

“What?”

“Yes,” Harry confirms, clearing his throat. “That’s the condition. Non-negotiable.”

Louis frowns at him. “Are you mad? I have my own clothes, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t need any of your posh ones.”

“You’re wearing a Christmas vest to the trip then?”

“That is _not_ the only thing I own.”

Harry challenges Louis with a look. “A jumper? At around seventy-three degrees?”

“Aren’t we operating on _my_ terms?”

Harry purses his lips, a smile threatening to break through his face. Louis looks so irritated, so exaggeratedly pissed off that instead of inducing worry into Harry, it makes his eyes dance with humor. Louis sees that, so he rolls his and moves towards his dresser.

He pulls a couple of items out—some tank tops, thin shirts (some collared), and a polo. 

“Take it easy, princess, we’re not going away for a month,” Harry teases.

A shirt hits him right in the face, and his mouth drops open—astounded as the article falls onto his hands. He takes a breath, deep enough for the oncoming litany. But then Louis laughs—a proper chuckle, and Harry’s whole world is suddenly shifting. 

Deep and throaty. The corner of Louis’ eyes crinkles at the corners even when he looks down to continue his shuffling. The image is stuck in Harry’s mind, light and bright Louis, his lips curled up—not in his usual smirk but in actual delight.

Harry would take a hundred shirts to the face to see that again.

“What are you standing there for?” Louis asks, shoving his unfolded clothes back into the dresser like he’d suddenly thought of something devious. He smirks at Harry. “You’ve got some shopping to do.”

  


Two days after that afternoon, Harry arrives at Little Rock with confidence in his steps. He’d already gotten his father’s thumbs up, and is now on the way to the kitchen to deliver the good news—well, good for him and Louis. The buzzing he feels keeps him from mulling it over. 

He’s had everything planned, of course. But as of the moment, there is no more important task than breaking the news to the twins and Patricia. 

He steels himself, expecting the worst but also hoping for the best.

Just as he steps in though, he feels the energy change. The twins are speculatively watching him, something written on their faces—a bit of disappointment, a tinge of exasperation. Only the bad things, and it tugs at his heart to see those emotions directed at him. 

Despite the guilt, he refuses to break the silence. And so, Edelie does for him.

“Care to explain?”

If he’s had any doubts, this is, for sure, the only confirmation he needs. His brows meet in the middle. “How do you already know?”

“Your father called,” Aurelie responds. “When were you going to tell us, _pain de sucré?_ ”

“Now. I was going to tell you now. You just beat me to it,” he answers. Patricia must already know too. Then he sees the look on their faces again and his heart plummets to his stomach. His eyes are cast down. “I thought you’d both be happy for Louis.”

“We are. But Harry, just…” Edelie sighs, “please don’t play with Louis.”

His eyes snap to hers. Play with Louis? Is that what they thought all of this had been? Him toying with Louis? Harry thinks back to his and Louis’ previous encounters. Sure, they weren’t instant best friends, but the past few days had been quite good, considering their track record. They no longer glared at each other, no longer spat hateful words, no more prank wars—nothing. 

If anything, they had been quite civil to each other. 

“I’m not playing with Louis,” he says earnestly, then adds, “I wouldn’t do anything to sabotage his future.”

Harry knew he meant it right as the words had left his mouth. Louis may have been a complete and utter dick when they had first met, but Harry is not as spiteful as to ruin someone’s chances at a different and better life. Plus, he had seen some of Louis' redeemable features. They weren’t a lot as of the moment, but who’s to say more wouldn’t appear over time?

Louis had certainly been more open—in his own way, of course. He hasn’t smiled or laughed again, no, but Harry could sense the familiarity in his gazes. Not exactly warm, but not icy either. Somewhere in the grey area—like coming across a stranger you had seen so many times before. Oftentimes he’d looked unapproachable (Harry doesn’t dare come near him when he’s in one of those moods), but he surprisingly hadn’t taken it out on Harry.

Something was changing between them, and Harry had ultimately decided not to point it out in fear of losing all the progress. How had he even come from damning Louis to somewhat wanting to be his friend? He doubts he ever would understand the strange pull. 

“We don’t mean that way,” Aurelie denies slowly, a look passing between her and her sister.

Just as she’s about to add more, Louis walks in, Luna in tow. The twins instantly turn around, busying themselves, and Louis’ eyes move from one twin to another before landing on Harry. Then he silently squeezes past them, getting on a seat and tucking his foot under his thigh.

Luna stretches her short arms out, wiggling them in the air. 

Louis sighs dramatically, carrying and planting her on his lap before pulling his book out of his back pocket. Luna breathes sleepily, head rested on Louis’ pecs. 

The domesticity in this picture astounds Harry, has him thinking about absurd thoughts like what would Louis be like as a parent? Or as an older brother? Did he have siblings before he got placed here? What would _they_ have been like? Is Luna maybe... his sister?

All these thoughts swirl inside his head, and the only thing that snaps him out of it is Louis’ eyes on him despite the pocketbook cradled in his hand. Making sure the twins’ backs were turned towards them, Harry sends a smirk Louis’ way.

“All done,” he mouths.

Satisfaction makes Louis’ lips twitch upwards, but only that. “Good,” he mouths back before his gaze lands on the pages of his book, a snoring Luna on his lap.

  


The day of the cruise starts like any other day for Harry—except Niall had been calling him every half hour since five in the morning, _bugging him_ about Louis. By nine a.m., Harry had stopped answering Niall’s calls altogether.

When he arrives at Little Rock at half past nine, he is smiley, radiantly grinning at every person that passes by the car. Today is the day. Every inch of his skin is warm with excitement, and he revels in it. Not long now before the sun will completely envelop him. Not long before the the seas drown him in blue. 

Oh, he’s excited alright.

Harry tries to hide his enthusiasm while in the backseat. Ed is driving them today, and because of the older man’s qualms about this deception, Harry reminds him of _his_ deceit when he had conspired with Gemma. Harry hadn’t wanted to resort to those measures, but like Niall had said—desperate times. Needless to say, that had been enough to rope Ed into helping. 

Harry’s knee has just started bouncing, eager eager eager to be out of the property. He waits for the other boy, checking the time on his phone every fifteen seconds or so. When he finally spots Louis stepping through the mahogany door, Harry scoots towards the other side in anticipation of his arrival. But, nothing in this world could have prepped him for the sight he was welcomed to when Louis slipped inside.

Louis was wearing a thin baby blue collared shirt—just the right size on him yet it clings to his shoulders like that’s exactly what it had been made to do. It’s patterned with the slightest hint of white flowers (Harry couldn’t tell what, he isn’t very good with florals), and Louis leaves the two from the top unbuttoned. And his bottoms— _Jesus Christ_ , Harry mentally curses—were denim shorts, snug on his thighs, and stopping just where his knees begin.

God truly has his favorites. Harry isn’t even aware Louis had these clothes lying around.

Louis looks up and Harry sees the change in his eye color, almost perfectly matching the shirt he’s wearing. He inwardly gloats when Louis takes his time eyeing him too, seemingly absorbing every detail from head to toe yet with his face still remaining impassive.

He’d cleaned up well too—green cotton collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows, and he’d paired it with dark black denim shorts almost the same length as Louis’. 

Which reminds him. Reaching down, he plucks a massive paper bag from the floor and places it on the space between them. 

Louis runs a hand over his quiff. “What’s that?”

“The product of my shopping spree.”

“What?”

“You asked me to shop, didn’t you?” Harry frowns. Had Louis forgotten? 

Before he could put more thought into it, Louis starts chuckling—emitting sound from the short bursts of breaths from the back of his throat. “I was just fucking with you,” he says, his fingers finding their way to cover his mouth and the grin on it. He faces front, his face vibrant with amusement. “Fuck’s sake, frogface.”

“That isn’t nice,” Harry scolds, a frown on his face despite the rampage of butterflies in his stomach.

Louis looks at him again, expression mellow now. “When have we ever done nice?”

Harry chooses to ignore that question. With determination on his features, he tells Louis, “You still are going to wear those.”

“No, I will not,” Louis argues stubbornly, yet he shifts in his seat, facing it and digging his hand in. “Let’s judge your taste, shall we?” 

Without waiting for a response, he fishes one out, shaking it to undo the crisp fold. Louis’ brows raise. “Expensive-looking,” he notes before murmuring, “Although I hadn't been expecting anything less. What even is this brand? I'm not gonna try and say that."

Harry bites down on his twitching lip.

Louis chucks it back into the paper bag, shrugging. “This could’ve been from a thrift shop, Poundland or something, and you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference.”

“How very dare you,” Harry scoffs, not the least bit wounded.

“And what the bloody hell is _this?_ ” Louis asks, plucking a pair of UK flag printed, tight-looking swimming trunks—the middle of the cross smack on the crotch area. He looks at it with so much disdain on his face that it makes Harry's cheeks to round. 

“Go UK,” Harry cheers weakly, his fist up in the air before exploding in quiet laughter. “Don’t you like it?”

“Don’t I like it?” Louis repeats, tone dry and turning in his seat to operate the car window. Harry watches as without so much as another word, Louis hurls the offensive item onto the road. “That about answer your question?”

Harry couldn’t find it within himself to be mad, just pleasantly amused and entertained. Good thing they weren’t on one of the main roads then.

The window remains partially open, and Louis (thank God) doesn’t throw any more out for the rest of the ride. He’s expressed his dislike on every single one of course, snide comments shooting out of his mouth every now and again, and Harry just laughs, taking delight in seeing Louis extremely pressed about a bag full of clothing.

Although some, Harry’s sure, Louis had stared at and held in his hands for a moment too long than the others. 

Louis chucks the last one back into the bag. “Still not wearing those.”

“Fancy skinny dipping then?”

“And give you lads the pleasure of seeing me naked? Sure,” Louis snickers, then from the side nearest to the door, he takes a rolled article of clothing— _is that a jumper?_ —and brandishes it in front of Harry. “Got everything I need in here.”

Harry eyes the item, confusion and mild disbelief on his face. “You rolled your underpants inside a jumper?” He asks, breaking into a sputtered laugh. “What… Lou…”

“What choice did I have, frogface?” Louis answers sharply, rolling his eyes and sighing when his agitation only makes Harry chuckle harder, “It’s not like I could waltz out out with a darn rucksack, could I?”

“But…” Harry’s still laughing, tears forming in the corner of his eyes and he dabs at it collecting the drops with his knuckle.

“Oh, how happy I must make you huh?”

“Sorry, it’s just—” Harry giggles, then blows steadying breaths out of his mouth, sounding like an owl. Louis mocks him, a displeased look on his face, and that only makes Harry laugh more. 

Louis faces away, a ghost of a smile on his lips as Harry tries to collect himself. Then, in perfect timing, the car comes to a stop with Ed informing them that they’ve arrived at the terminal. The boys step out, Harry with the vibrant smile still stuck on his face and Louis with a slightly amused look on his.

As if on cue, Niall, Liam and Zayn all turn around at the same time, their expressions brightening at the sight of the two. 

“Finally, they arrive!” Niall shouts in welcome, advancing with his arms spread wide. “What took you both so long? What, were you screwing on the way?”

After side-hugging Harry, Niall moves for the other boy, but Louis ducks away from him and uses Harry as a human shield. “He wishes. Move away, Niall,” he sing-songs.

“Hey,” Harry drawls, “I’m not the one with the rolled-up—”

Louis steps around Harry. “Right. Is that us?” He asks, pointing at a gigantic cruise ship visible from where they were standing. And although Harry notices the faint pinkness in Louis’ cheeks, he chooses to ignore it, choosing to smirk instead.

The three walk toward Zayn and Liam who are currently immersed in a hushed conversation.

“Lou,” Zayn coos as soon as they’re closer, arms outstretched for a hug. Zayn moves forward just as Louis steps back, his grin widening. It doesn’t take long before they’re running around, and although Zayn has slightly longer limbs than him, Louis is way more agile, his strong legs and small stature working to his advantage.

He manages to evade Zayn for approximately fifteen seconds before Zayn’s arms wrap around his waist, surprisingly carrying him like he weighs nothing—partly horizontal and pressed to his hip. Louis is kicking at the air, grunting. Harry notes how like him, Liam’s gaze is transfixed on them, a mixture of curiosity and speculation.

“Children,” Niall shrugs at a passerby watching. Then he turns to the boys. “Come on, lads, not long before word gets out.”

“Just wait Niall,” Zayn says, setting Louis flat on his feet but not letting go of his hold. Harry stares at Zayn’s arm wound around Louis for too long. _Why’s he touching Louis?_

“Louis, this is Liam. Li, this is Louis,” Zayn introduces the two.

“Be careful,” Niall warns Liam lightheartedly, “bit of a boorish, this one.”

Louis rolls his eyes, twisting away from Zayn and moving to stand beside Harry. “You have the brazenness to call me that, do you, when you’re looking like a bloody toothbrush.”

The other boys erupt into laughter at Louis’ dig. Niall places his palm against his chest, acting like he’s in pain but immediately breaks character and chortles. Ed enters the circle, handing Harry and Louis their things—a tote and a narrow yet deep box for Harry, and the paper bag for Louis.

“Nice to meet you, mate,” Liam says, smiling sheepishly at Louis. 

Louis eyes him up and down. “Oh. The bear speaks.”

Chuckles fill their small circle, then sounds of agreement and banter, started with Niall’s ‘ _Yeah, Llama, you do look like a bear. A teddy_ —’ and Zayn’s ‘ _A teddy?_ ’

Harry takes his focus off of them and hands Louis the carton. Louis doesn’t reach for it, he instead stares at Harry’s fingers before meeting his gaze. 

“What is that?”

“Open it,” Harry encourages. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

There is a moment of hesitation from Louis before he takes it from Harry's hands. With careful fingers, he pries the lid open, coming face to face with a camcorder. Harry watches as Louis inspects the item, turning it from side to side then upside down.

Their eyes meet. “A camera?” Louis asks, voice soft and almost melodic—full of wonder.

And just like that, he’s not Louis the peashooter, or Louis the rude boy from Little Rock. He was just Louis, and Harry doesn’t understand the strange pull in his stomach. Like a pathway from his nostrils to his chest had just been paved through, giving him the impression that he’s as light as feather. Harry mentally shakes his head and shoves that to the side, choosing to smile kindly instead.

“Like I promised.”

Louis nods once, then he operates—well, at least tries to operate—the little gadget. It’s hand-held, a grip present similar to a gun or a sword. He experimentally brings it closer to his face, looking through the glass and inevitably squinting, his mouth unconsciously pulled up into some kind of snarl. 

Then he brings it down, inspecting it again.

“Lad, that’s so sick,” Liam gawks. “Where’d you get that?”

Louis cocks his head towards Harry’s direction before evading Niall’s grabbing hands, leaving the poor Irish boy pouting. The boy tries again, and Louis turns his back on him fully, busying himself by reading the labels on buttons. 

Harry leans closer to him, his tall figure looming over Louis’ petite one. “Do you like it?” 

“Betamax, is it?”

“Uh… no, this is a different one. I couldn't get one of those really vintage ones. Still the same function,” Harry rushes out, watching Louis’ reaction.

Louis says nothing, only hitting a button and pans it over to Harry’s direction. Harry dimples, radiant and bright, shaking his head. Idle seconds pass and he pushes the camera down, bashful, but Louis swoops it up again, this time pointing it up to the sky and his lips curved upwards.

“Come on now. Times a-wastin’ lads,” Niall ushers, gathering them all within his short arms. They don’t fit, of course, and Harry is squished between sweaty bodies but because it pushes him closer to Louis, he indulges his friend.

They move, five boys beside each other in a straight line and dominating the pathway. People their age passing by look at them with curiosity, while those older stare with annoyance. Louis pushes at Niall, wanting to get away, but the other boy only pulls him harder.

With rucksacks of their own (apart from Harry who also carries Louis’ paper bag aside from his tote), they make their ways to the loading dock. Niall’s arms eventually fall away and Harry knows he has to ease some distance between them. 

Louis stops right in front of a massive ship. His eyes wander, long and slender neck needing to bend back so he could see the top of it. Then, as if jolted, he brings his new camera out and starts recording. Harry is watching, waiting patiently for Louis to finish.

Zayn notices them falling steps behind and calls out. “Boys, y’alright?” Niall and Liam stop too. Harry sticks his thumb to the air.

“They’ve walked past…” Louis trails off absently.

“Oh. No. That’s not—”

"That’s a cruise ship, isn’t it?”

“Niall has… erm—”

Niall cuts Harry’s explanation off with a yell. “Oi! Get your asses over ‘ere!” 

Louis looks at the ship one last time before he follows Harry towards the others. Every now and again, Harry checks over his shoulder for Louis, eventually slowing his stride to match his. They get to the gangway in silence.

“Right. Of course,” Louis mutters before following the boys into a yacht—huge, around two hundred eighty feet long, its hull painted a dirty white. There’s an inscription on the side—a beautiful cursive lettering of _Hay._

Harry had never asked Niall of it before despite being on it multiple times, assumed it had just been an obsession of his, because yes, Niall does get rather infatuated with names. But the thing is, it had never come up in conversation. And Niall, loud and wild as he is, doesn’t blab much about his personal affairs. Louis must be thinking the same, his gaze lingering on the letters.

One of the crew helps Louis onto the yacht, offering his hand for the boy to grab onto, and Harry looks—glares, really—at the offensive limb. He inwardly gloats when Louis doesn’t take it, carefully stepping on the retractable gangway instead and holding onto the railing for support. Harry is on standby, near but not touching, watchful for when Louis accidentally slips. 

But he doesn’t, because Louis is not a gawky teenage boy like Harry. Just as Harry takes a step forward, his foot slides across the platform, and he’s pretty sure he sees his life flash before his eyes before he feels a sharp pain on his nose, his elbows, and knees.

He curses lowly, the paper bag falling with him and spilling some of the contents out. 

Harry hears shouts of panic and frantic stomping of feet, but the first face he spots is Louis’. He’s crouched and on his knees too, face etched with worry. 

“Fucking hell,” Louis breathes, tipping Harry’s chin up then side to side to inspect the damage on his nose.

Harry lets him, because the warmth of Louis’ fingers distracts him from the pain he feels everywhere. Then the boys appear, crowding him and shooting off question after question. He couldn’t focus, not one bit, because Louis’ hands are gone and he’d backed away, giving space for the others.

And it’s embarrassing—so embarrassing that instead of worrying about breaking his nose, or the scrapes on his knees and elbows, he’s more worried that _Louis_ is worried. However weird that may be.

“Bloody hell, Harold. Trying to get a dive in before boarding, are you?”

Niall picks him up by his armpits like a child, and Zayn moves forward, dusting his clothes and pushing Harry’s fringe away from his face. Liam takes initiative and asks the crew to get a first aid kit. 

Zayn takes his other side, “Come on, let’s get you sorted.”

When they all get on, they are lead straight to the aft deck where Harry is sat on a white futon adorned with accent pillows of a whole spectrum of nude and browns, swirls and geometric patterns that should’ve clashed but strangely don’t. A woman approaches him, first aid kit in hand, and he smiles at her despite his pain.

“Nora.”

“Harry,” she greets back, tutting, “why am I not surprised?”

That makes Harry giggle, immediately hissing when it causes his nose to crunch that way he always does when he’s fonding. The boys surround him, each of them seated on either side. All apart from Louis, who is leaning against the banisters, but is keeping a watchful eye on Harry and nipping at his fingernails, but from a safe distance.

While Nora tends to Harry’s wounds and assures him it was nothing but just a bad fall, he sees Louis look around, his face lacking its usual impassive tone. This time, Louis looks slightly bemused. 

“Smile!” Niall shouts just as he snaps a photo, not giving Harry nor the others a chance to pose. He swipes on his phone before looking up again. “Lou-bear, looking for a dive too? Why’re you standing so close to the railing?”

Harry uses that opportunity to look back at Louis, just in time to see him roll his eyes. Harry thanks Nora just as she finishes up and disappears into the cabin area, giving Niall a pat on his head on her way back. She’s replaced by a couple servers, bringing food out and setting the trays onto the mini-dining area. 

Niall acknowledges every single one of them, and the other boys including Harry send shy and thankful smiles their way. Louis remains by the railings, silent and observant, but only until Niall drags him to the futon and forces him to play a game of poker.

  


An hour later and multiple hands lost by Niall, Zayn and Liam drop from the game, leaving the other three.

Niall spins—checks for something behind him—so suddenly that it catches Louis’ attention. 

“Looking for snitches?” Louis questions teasingly. Both of his brows are arched, his fingers doing quick work of shuffling the cards without even glancing at them. 

“Reflective surfaces," Niall corrects, "fess up, _Lewis_ , how are you so good at this? You’ve learned this way before today, haven’t you? Just been a pretentious little twat all this time, acting dumb.”

“A gentleman never tells, Nialler.”

Niall snickers at Louis’ smirk and one-shoulder shrug. Harry observes them quietly, propped up by his hands. He meets Louis’ gaze, and the other boy instantly narrows his eyes at him before looking away. Harry dimples, trying to hold in his grin. 

Crazy strange how if Louis had done that before, it would’ve ticked Harry off—would’ve sparked another spat between them. But now, Harry had grown to understand Louis’ small quirks, to not be offended at every single little thing he does. Ironically, he’s unexpectedly endeared by them, finally understanding that that’s just part of Louis' personality.

Zayn comes up beside Harry, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder while Liam makes his way to Niall, placing a hand on the top of his head. Their proximity to each other warms Harry’s chest. They had always been close, and the addition of Liam had made their bond even tighter. He loves them, plain and simple. But then his eyes drift to Louis, and he sees him by himself and avoiding eye contact. So, he does the only thing he could think of: he shifts his leg closer, not enough to touch but just right for his body heat to float into Louis’ skin. 

Louis remains motionless for a bit, then he continues shuffling, seemingly uncaring as he deals. But then he moves—the slightest, most unnoticeable movement he had ever made. Harry could have chalked it up to how Louis reached over to Niall and had not paid attention to where he was landing back, but Louis doesn’t retract his hand under Harry’s knee. He doesn’t. So Harry takes that as a good sign and relaxes his leg, pressing down harder on Louis’ knuckles. 

He feels disappointment crash through him, making his heart drop to his stomach when Louis pulls back and stares at him reproachfully. An apology is on the edge of his tongue, and just as he opens his mouth, Louis plants his elbow on that same knee and cradles his own face, starting the game without another word.

Something inside Harry balloons into an impossible size.

Zayn detaches himself from him, moving to chuck his shirt off and leaving it a crumpled mess on the floor. “Neil, got cash on you?” Niall hums distractedly, arranging his set. “Li, get this on video please? Idiot’s not even looking.”

“Way ahead of ya, Z. Do you want me to jump with you? I could—would. Water looks inviting.”

Harry watches as Zayn bites his lip nervously, peering over the edge before his hopeful eyes land on Liam who’s already shrugging his tee off. “You would?”

The smile Liam sends Zayn is vibrant and soft. “You don’t even need to ask, mate. Hold on, let me get this camera sorted and we’ll go.”

Liam fumbles with the gadget, gripping the handle tightly with his left and holding it away from his body. When his gaze pans over to Zayn, he sees the nervous hunch of his shoulders. Harry is immediately on his feet, headed to them and cards abandoned on the futon after he'd excused himself.

“All right?” He asks Zayn, palm flat on his back as he himself leans over the edge to check the waters under. He tries not to shudder. That is quite a terrifying jump.

Zayn swallows thickly. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s just a few feet. And then I’ll be in the water with thousands of unknown creatures… deep in…”

Liam wraps his fingers around Zayn’s arm. “Hey, hey. You don’t have to do this, you know. We can soak in the ‘cuzzi instead. Not a problem at all. Whatever you want.”

“No. I can do this,” Zayn says resolutely, rolling his shoulders back before glancing at Harry. “You jumping?” 

The expectant look on his face makes it difficult for Harry to refuse. He couldn’t really let him leap and face his fear without being by his side, could he? Decided, he nods his head. “One sec,” he says, jogging back to Niall and Louis who were still playing, his top already off. “Zayn’s jumping.”

Niall hums again, eyes on Louis. Harry gives him a hard shove on the shoulder, and it makes him drop his cards instantly, eyes wide and hands scrambling to conceal his set. “What’d you do that for?” 

“Zayn’s jumping, I said.”

“Well why didn’t you say sooner? Hiatus, Lewis,” Niall straightens up and stretches before heading over to Zayn and Liam. “Don’t dare do it without me!”

Harry arches a brow at Louis expectantly which the other boy reciprocates, stubbornness shining through. Harry whines. “Come on, Lou. This is a big moment for Zayn.”

“Exactly. There’s no reason for me to take part in it.”

Harry sighs. “What do you mean? He absolutely adores you. It would be stupid of you to not be there.”

Louis discreetly cranes his neck to watch the other boys, and Harry is certain what Louis sees is everyone holding hands, comforting and surrounding Zayn with their support. Louis’ eyes flash with longing, but when he meets Harry’s eyes again, he schools them to neutrality. Then with a sad smile, he whispers, “They’re waiting for you, frogface.”

Louis continues shuffling the cards, eyes fixed on them now—and Harry knows it’s his way of pulling back and evading the topic.

What sucks more is that Harry isn’t Niall. He couldn’t force something onto Louis, couldn’t take away his choices. So he takes one last look at Louis’ resolute face—sees the firm decision there—before walking back to the boys.

“Where’s Lou?” Liam asks him, and he just shakes his head in lack of a better response.

To his surprise, Zayn looks over his shoulder, cocks his head, and shouts, “Lou! Get over here! I’m not jumping without you.”

Louis is frozen for a moment, and then this radiant expression fills his face, bright and strikingly beautiful despite his desperation to not let it show. It sends a sharp pain to everything inside Harry’s ribcage, and then butterflies. Lots of them, fluttering their tiny wings that graze against his heart. 

Louis approaches them, a slowness in his steps. And then, upon seeing the boys waiting, he makes quick work of unbuttoning his shirt, effectively making blood rush to Harry’s cheeks… and other areas it isn’t supposed to. He turns away immediately, the mental picture of Louis’ defined stomach and chest burned into the back of his mind. 

Louis hadn’t been well-defined the last time he’d seen him topless. That must be what he had been doing all those weeks in his room alone in Little Rock. Done him good, Harry thinks, before immediately shaking the thought away.

Niall steps away from Zayn, making space for Louis. Louis looks at him questioningly, and Niall leans in to whisper _‘I’ve had years of holding his hand. It’s your turn now_ ’ —loud enough for Harry to hear.

However, it becomes apparent a moment later that that hadn’t been the only reason Niall had given up his spot beside his best bud. Louis is wincing now, his nose scrunched adorably as Zayn clasps his hand around his so tightly, yet he doesn’t complain about it—at least not aloud. Harry resists the urge to giggle. 

“Niall, you fucking arsehole,” Louis hisses vehemently, and this time Harry does laugh, loud and explosive before covering his mouth with his free hand.

Zayn breathes. “I think I’m ready.”

As if on cue, their holds on one another grow more secure. 

“Alright. Together on three lads,” Niall announces, voice high and excited. He jogs in place, a blinding grin on his mouth, and Harry can’t help but share the enthusiasm. “One!” Everyone takes a simultaneous huge gulp of air. “Two!”

Several things happen in that moment: Niall jumps and takes Harry with him, resulting to Louis yanking on Zayn’s hand and Zayn on Liam's, and they’re all falling into the water, screaming in alarm and exhilaration as the wind brushes up against their faces. 

The spatter of their bodies against the sea is successive—one after another, like bullets flying out of rifles. And Harry, he accidentally lets go of Niall’s hand, his eyes scouring underwater and seeing only blue. 

He flaps his arms and surfaces, gasping for air and brushing hair away from his face. He searches, counts the heads. When he sees four pop out from the water, he lets out a breath of pure relief. He swims towards Niall, smacking the back of his head.

“On three, huh? Idiot.”

Niall chortles. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

Harry treads through the water to get to Zayn, finding Liam already by his side and chuckling, his eyes narrowed and the corners of his lips pulled so high up. He’s holding Zayn’s face, pushing stray strands behind his ears. 

Zayn returns that radiance, laughing lowly and breathily. 

Everyone is watching, waiting for Zayn to say something. Liam’s arm wraps around his waist, keeping him close to his body and Harry is sure he’s not the only one who notices. 

“Let’s do that again,” Zayn finally proposes, grinning.

They all cheer boisterously, all apart from Louis who just laughs into the back of his hand and turns away, shaking his head. They stay in the water for a while, just swimming and floating, until Liam suggests they play a game. Chicken fight, he says it’s called.

The moment Niall teams with Louis, Harry backs out, opting to be the scorekeeper instead, the memory of Louis’ competitiveness overruling his want to play.

They begin round one, Zayn atop of Liam’s strong shoulders, fingers gripping onto Zayn’s bare thighs. Niall and Louis are in the same position, although it had took more convincing and playful fighting for Louis to be on top. 

With giggling in between his words, Harry manages to yell out a countdown before the two teams go at each other. Zayn is chuckling endlessly, his limbs weakening the more laughter that escapes him. Louis on the other hand seems to be more determined than ever, the familiar game face on his expression as he tries to rein in his snickers.

Louis and Zayn push against each other, Niall and Liam under them wobbling and struggling to keep the other boys upright.

“Ni-all,” Louis grunts out as Zayn takes the advantage. Harry watches as Niall’s grip on Louis’ thighs tighten despite his guffaws. The strange spark of unease fills him again, and despite it being quite strong, he tries to ignore it—push it down—because really, what good is there to be jealous when they’re just playing a stupid game?

“Come on, mate!” Liam cheers from below. 

In a flurry of movement, Louis lets go of one of Zayn’s arms to pinch his nipple, and Zayn yelps, his strength suddenly gone as Louis pushes him off of Liam and back into the water. He lands with a loud splash, and Liam pulls him out, laughing.

“You cheated!” Zayn sputters, accusing playfully.

“Wasn’t in the rules, was it?”

Niall beams at Louis, thoroughly amused at what just happened. “You went for his nipple? Oh, Lewis, you and I might be more similar than you think.” Then he moves in for a quick half-hug, his chin hooking onto Louis’ shoulder and Harry just bursts. 

“Proxy!” He blurts, swimming to them. 

Niall looks proper excited, rubbing his palms together with a sly smile on his face. “Yes, Harold! Get over here. Zayn’s other nipple is looking quite lonely.”

The other boys burst out laughing while Zayn shoots back a good-natured ‘ _Fuck you, Niall_ ’ before getting on Liam’s shoulders again. 

Harry faces Niall. “But I want to be on top.”

“Don’t we all?” Niall winks. “But you’ve got the personality of a bottom, Harold. Maybe next time.” That alone makes Harry blush beet red. He mutters a silent ‘ _Shut up_ ’ and pinches the inside of Niall’s arm. 

Niall threads his fingers through Harry’s hair. “What’s the score Lewis?” 

“One-zero, in favor of us.” Louis scoops water up to his face and pushes his quiff back. Then in a completely unexpected move, he captures Harry’s wrist underwater, squeezing gently. “Be a good bottom and do not mess it up.”

As if possible, Harry flushes deeper than before, feeling the heat crawl up from his chest to his face. Louis moves away, lips twitched upwards because of Niall’s teasing at Harry’s reaction. 

The boys begin round two. Zayn tries the nipple tactic on Niall, but Niall being the big-brained that he is, dodges the attack and uses his toes to tickle the flat of Zayn’s foot. Liam momentarily backs up, giving his partner time to recover from the tickles before advancing again. Then Zayn grabs hold of Niall’s arms, the both of them battling through endless giggles until finally, Niall accidentally elbows Harry’s head—enough reason for him to loosen his hold on Niall and for Zayn to swoop in and deliver the final blow, sending the opposing team into the sea.

They celebrate, splashing water onto Harry and Niall and calling them all the names in the book substituting for loser. 

Louis is in front of Harry, staring, and Harry half expects to be mouthed off, that Louis be mad at him for not holding onto Niall tighter and losing to the other team. So when Louis doesn’t speak, Harry’s brows meet in confusion upon seeing Louis’ are arched.

“Fancy yourself a punching bag today?”

Harry goes lax and snickers, rubbing the sore spot. “It does hurt. Really bad. Niall’s bony.”

Louis looks pensive for a short moment before he enunciates the words—“watch and learn,”—slowly as if speaking to a child. Harry playfully rolls his eyes as the boy moves away and claps Niall on the shoulder a little bit too hard than what was necessary, pushing to be on top.

“One-one,” Harry shouts. 

The boys get into formation, and Harry tries to shove the unwelcome discomfort in his chest at the sight of Louis shirtless with legs hanging in front of Niall. He counts down, watching as Louis tries to intimidate Zayn with his glare. Zayn answers by sticking his tongue out at him before rolling his shoulders back. 

They collide on Harry’s cue, and Liam and Niall growl playfully at each other as the boys on top engage in battle. Louis’ hands are wandering around Zayn’s torso, almost like he’s looking for something. _Weak spots?_ Harry thinks idly, unaware of the almost angry look on his face. It immediately dissipates when Louis glances his way, like checking if he’s watching. Satisfied that he is, in the most non-innocent manner, Louis slaps the top of Niall’s head before continuing the attack on Zayn.

Niall yelps before chuckling. “What the fuck, Lewis?”

Harry cheeks round. _Had Louis… did Lou really just…?_ There’s a sudden rush of warmth at the tips of Harry’s ears. His nostrils flare in reaction to his poor attempt at keeping his lips from curving upwards.

Louis ignores Niall, his hand landing on a spot between Zayn’s neck and shoulder, that small area that he presses on experimentally, and instantly, Zayn is putty in his hands. Louis shoves him off of Liam before raising his fists in the air, the splash of Zayn’s collapse sounding like applause for his victory.

“That’s how you do it!” Niall cheers, voice booming _ole ole ole!_ as he dances in place. Zayn starts swimming towards the retractable swim ladder, hauling himself up on the platform attached to it. He pulls his feet up, Liam coming up beside him too. 

“You headed up already?” Niall asks the two, momentarily stopping his victory dance.

Liam faces Zayn, letting the decision-making fall on him. And so, Zayn nods his head, shivering a little and folding into himself. “Not risking the chance of getting eaten by a Loch Ness of some sort,” he quips, already making his way up with Liam trailing him.

Harry’s eyes find Louis’ a foot or two away. “Are you coming up too?” He questions, voice low.

“Why are you whispering?” Louis shoots back when he’s within a few inches from Harry, his movements causing the water to kiss up his shoulders then down his chest then up again. 

It mesmerizes Harry for a second before he gathers his wits, trying so hard not to focus on the way Louis’ collarbones move when he treads through the sea, or the hollow space between those that glistens with collected water, or the stray lock of hair falling in the middle of his forehead—swirled at the perfect angle, not even the way Louis’ skin glows impossibly more with droplets trickling down. 

“I’m not whispering,” Harry finally denies.

“You are. You’re doing it again, see.”

He chuckles, voice an octave higher than his normal. “I’m not.”

“You so are.”

Louis insists that before he makes a move towards the platform as well, Harry following him like a lost little puppy, and he doesn’t even realize it until then: that he may as well shout it out for everyone to hear, because he was _that_ obvious. 

So when his foot falls flat on the bottom of the ladder and Louis mutters “ _Don't trip,_ ” Harry freaks out and rushes to say that he needed to tell Niall something and had to stay behind. Louis’ body turns visibly rigid before he wordlessly continues his way up, with a fraction more force in his steps. Harry watches his retreating back, heart pounding harshly inside his ribcage. Had he said something wrong?

“Harold. You’re not coming with Lou?” 

He spins to find Niall pulling himself onto the platform, planting one knee on it, then another before he rises to his full height. 

“Hey, something wrong? You look like someone shit on your crisps,” he jokes when he sees Harry’s face. Harry isn’t entirely sure, but he assumes he’s ashen, looking proper shaken up. That must be why Niall places a palm on his shoulder, trying to catch his gaze. “Harry, seriously. You all right, man?”

“I... There’s something I should probably tell you.”

“Yeah,” Niall nods, squeezing his shoulder, “yeah, sure. Do you want to sit on the deck?”

“No,” Harry answers a little too quickly, his eyes drifting towards that direction, and he does a double take when he spots Louis there, looking over them. The expression on his face reminds Harry of the day they had first met, when Louis had been on the second floor landing and staring with hostility.

Harry isn’t sure if the shudder that courses through him is caused by the breeze or the look on Louis’ face—like he’s irritated, no, _furious_ —and Harry doesn’t have a single clue why. Their gazes lock for a few seconds more before Louis turns away.

“Want to explain that, Harold?” Niall probes teasingly. 

Harry’s eyes are cast down now, hands in his shorts’ pockets. “Explain what?”

“Please. I’m not blind,” Niall chuckles, crouching low and planting his bum on the platform. “I see those murderous glares you give me when I come close to Lou. Wasn’t sure then, but I am now. What’s up with you and him?”

“I don’t… murderous glares… psh.”

Harry sits across Niall as he plays with his fingers, avoiding Niall’s eyes and the question altogether. 

Meanwhile, Niall’s silence is deafening—speaking of his skepticism and patience for Harry. He just peacefully stares out into the sea, and it’s in that exact moment that Harry is reminded of how _exposed_ Niall had been to the real world, how this teen sat in front of him isn’t just his best friend, but is also the heir of one of the most prominent families in the country. Of course, he could spot bull from miles away. 

“We’re… erm—I think I’m—you know,” he stammers out, having no idea of how to confess his attraction for another boy. How can he when there’s no guide—a _How To Come Out_ —whatsoever written for these circumstances?

“You like him?”

Niall’s bluntness takes Harry aback so much that he doesn’t find the words to answer, just watches Niall with his heart in his throat, about to be spilled into the sea or the platform, whichever comes first. Because he couldn’t tell if Niall approves of it or not; couldn’t tell what his best pal is thinking because Niall is always the loudest in the room, but now is the quietest Harry had ever seen him, and it scares the living shit out of him.

What if this damages his relationship with Niall? With the others? He feels an insurmountable amount of fear and insecurity travel through his veins, clouding his judgment. 

So he snorts—had tried to at least, because the sound comes out wrong, like he’s about to choke on the lies he’s going to tell.

“How could I possibly like someone who only cares about himself? And the things that come out of his mouth—” Harry hears Louis’ voice in the back of his mind; _‘I’m sure you’ll find a way’ ‘Oh, how happy I must make you huh?’_ and he swallows past the forming lump in his throat, “—horrible. I didn’t nickname him peashooter for nothing, Ni.”

Niall says nothing for a moment, perhaps seeing the underlying falsity in Harry’s words. He hugs his knees, chewing on his bottom lip and nodding before asking Harry, “And the way he treats you?”

It takes Harry a while to answer, because he swears he could feel the ghost of Louis’ palm flat on his lower back, the dig of his elbow into his knee, his fingers around his wrist, and it makes him breathe harder, makes lying all the more difficult when he could _feel_ and _hear_ Louis everywhere. 

“I don’t like him,” Harry finally croaks out, eyes on the surface of the platform. Something stirs inside his belly. He’d just lied to his best friend. He’d lied. He’d lied. He’d lied.

He’s up on his feet, anxious to escape the conversation, but just as he spins on his heel, Niall addresses him, voice soft.

“It’s okay, you know. If you do.”

Harry pauses, his breath speeding up, growing more frantic as he looks at Niall over his shoulder. And his voice is low, raspy, and full of insecurity when he asks: “What?”

Niall flashes a warm grin at him, the other corner of his mouth angled down in a way that is very Niall. “You don’t need anyone’s approval, Harry. And you certainly don’t need mine, but you have it—in full and without question.” He rises to his feet. “We like who we like, Harold. Doesn’t change who you are to me. Not one bit.”

Unshed tears prickle Harry’s eyes, and an undeniable and vicious force clenches his heart. He swallows thickly, feeling like all of his insides had shrunken into hundreds of sizes smaller. Niall is very rarely sedate, always always _always_ the one who doesn’t take anything too seriously, and seeing him like this—strongly supportive and with unwavering faith in him—it has inevitably knocked the air out of Harry’s chest.

He holds himself together best that he can, choosing to answer Niall with a simple nod of his head before heading up himself. He becomes aware of music halfway up, a rock song with a bass that encourages his bones and everything around it to vibrate along with the lively beat. _When had they played this? How could he not have noticed?_

Stepping onto the deck, he sees the other three, lounging around and perched on the stools by the mini-bar, glasses already in their hands. He makes his way over, catching the last of the boys’ heated conversation about certain fruits and their undeserved popularities. (Literally— _what?_ ) He comes to stand next to Liam, their hips touching. Liam momentarily leans his head against Harry’s shoulder.

“No, I don’t like them,” Louis declares in that stubborn tone he always has, now with an unusual drawl present in his words. 

Harry watches, alarmed, as Louis downs the contents of the shot glass, making a face at the burning path that the liquid licks down his throat. Harry looks around him, seeing the others unbothered by the action. _He’s underage_ , Harry explodes in his head. _Just how many had he already drank?_

Liam takes a sip of his drink. “For what exact reason, Louis? I know for a fact that avocados are real healthy. Tasty too, with a bit of sugar and lots of milk, blended together.”

Zayn absently mutters something about loving an avocado smoothie right at that moment, perking up when he spots Niall. 

The two of them fall into an easy conversation while Louis’ lips curl up in distaste at Liam’s earlier reply. “I don’t give a shit even if you sprinkle some gold dust into the fucking mix, Payno. Avocados are rubbish. I’d rather starve.”

_Payno?_

“Now you’re just overreacting,” Liam chuckles, taking a huge gulp.

Harry takes hold of the bottle just as Louis begins to lift it up, and the look Louis sends him then is petrifying—all frosty and stony irritation. However, without so much as a word, Louis forcefully yanks it away from Harry, proceeding to pour alcohol into his glass. He continues his and Liam’s conversation, as if that thing with Harry hadn’t happened at all.

Harry, he’s astounded, a deeply unpleasant feeling taking residence in his stomach. His mind is going— _What the fuck?_ —over and over and over again, because Louis may have looked furious not so long ago, but now he seemed livid, the emotion bottled up yet shining through by the way his nostrils flare and his jaw ticks. And Harry, for fuck’s sake, is entirely clueless as to why and that frustrates him even more.

Louis ignores him for the rest of the afternoon. It didn’t matter that they were huddled on the couch again, or had tried their hand at fishing at the stern—not even when Niall took him to a tour around the yacht. Louis _chose_ to not acknowledge him.

And what’s worse, the more Louis drank, the more… open he’d gotten. He’d joked around, like the other three had been his friends for the longest time. And Louis’ hands had traveled as much as his eyes had, squeezing Liam’s shoulder, giving Niall’s bad knee a light punch, and Zayn’s forearm a pinch.

All these, he did in front of Harry—as if taunting—because every single time, he’d glance at him, a challenging glint in his eyes mixed with an equal amount of annoyance.

The skies have now shifted to a very strong orange, the horizon magestically transitioning to a pastel violet. It reminds Harry of cotton candy, except, this is much more breathtaking—more surreal and elegant. Like something achievable only with editing software. But even that does not take his mind off of the sudden change in Louis. 

His eyes follow Louis’ movement, from standing up to toddling across the deck, to finally disappearing into the inside of the cabin, headed to the loo, he assumes. 

Niall lets out a loud “wooh” before dramatically wiping his forehead and fanning himself. Zayn and Liam laugh at that while Harry looks at him with amusement. “I’m breathless from the tension.”

Harry shakes his head, a bit woozy now. “I don’t know what his problem is. He’s hot then cold, yes then no. It’s frustrating.”

“Sounds awful lot like a Katy Purry song,” Liam comments, shoulders bobbing. The three erupt into giggles.

Zayn nudges him. “Perry.”

“Oh shit,” Liam replies, eyes wide and on Niall, who he’s sure is going to give him shit for it. Niall does, exploding in laughter and falling back on the couch.

“Purry. What do you think she is—a cat? Oh Cat-y Purry. Oh damn.” He’s in a fit of uncontrollable giggles now, the buzz of the alcohol taking over him. Harry laughs along with them, only then realizing his reference.

Zayn is the first to sober up. “Just talk to him. Find out what’s gotten him so worked up.”

“Louis doesn’t do talks,” Harry replies, sighing and absently poking the futon. Louis really doesn’t. He’s never talked about his feelings—never the sensitive type, not even the expressive type. He does things his own way, a way that’s very singular. Very him. 

As if summoned, Louis returns then, dropping like a fly on the couch and his eyes trained up towards the sky. The other boys jump into conversation. But Louis, he stays silent, lids droopy and a calm and wistful expression on his face. Harry doubts he’s even listening to the boys.

He finds himself just watching Louis, a heaviness sitting on his chest with the way Louis sighs deeply every now and then while the boys seem to be oblivious of it. A question is on the tip of his tongue, curious as to what Louis might be thinking that sends sighs into the air, but he holds himself back, resorting to just watching quietly. 

Funny how the alcohol in his system should’ve made him braver, yet because it’s Louis—the boy who still isn’t speaking to him for whatever reason—he bites his tongue. It’s slightly uncomfortable: that unexplainable power that Louis now holds over him. But because of Harry’s alcohol-induced haze, he hadn’t gotten much thought put into it.

So, as the sun falls asleep, so does he.  


  


There’s a heavy weight resting on Harry’s shoulder when he regains consciousness. He tries to roll over despite being disoriented, his head still spinning and making him wonder just how much he’d drank. It’s a leg, he realizes when he turns to his side. _Who_ … The darkness of the surroundings makes him blink in surprise. Had he really slept through the late afternoon? 

The slightly cold breeze that kisses his skin pushes him more awake by the second. And then there’s the music—a slow and lazy melody that screams astral and space travel. He lightly pushes the leg away before sitting up, only then finding out that it was Louis’, and the moment his body heat leaves Louis’ skin, Louis shifts, turning and grunting in his sleep. 

Harry couldn’t help the lifting of the corner of his lips. Soft and domestic—that’s how Louis looks like. He’d pulled a top on, one Harry recognizes as a piece he had bought. Harry takes pride on the way the turquoise tank molds onto his body perfectly, remembering the day that he had picked that out. 

Doodled crosses are littered all over it with swords slicing through the middle. It’s cute, and as soon as he’d seen it, he knew it had to be Louis’. Harry looks at him one last time before getting up, heading over to the other three who were reclined on deck chairs, talking amongst themselves. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Niall greets as soon as he spots him. He adjusts his position, tucking the fleece blanket under his chin. 

Harry takes the last one left and spreads it over himself, lying down as well and curling up into a ball. “I feel like I’ve been run over. Ten times by an eighteen wheeler.”

“Tell me about it,” Zayn mutters before taking a sip from a bottle of water. 

Liam shifts in his chair, shoulders sagging as he looks up at the sky. He sighs deeply before closing his eyes, relaxing into the chair as the music transitions to something more delicate. The effect is clear on all of them, deep calm settling into their bones. 

They share the silence. Just them, the blanket of stars and the cold wind, each person preoccupied with something in their minds that none are ready to share. It’s that kind of night that just demands peace—one of those that makes him want to lie back with his lids shut and just let the breeze carry him away as if he were dust. 

Harry’s eyes follow Zayn’s, ending on Liam’s sleeping figure. Zayn’s just casually observing, running his gaze along the edges of the blanket, and Harry gets the feeling that he’s checking for untucked sides—openings for the breeze to seep into.

Zayn’s naturally caring and thoughtful, but not to this extent—not like a vigilant mother hen towards her chick. It didn’t need to have Sherlock Holmes to figure out that this was an entirely different side to his friend that he’s only seeing now.

And he’d never thought about it before. But Zayn… is he like him? The thought makes him swallow, filling his head with a spectrum of colors and warmth with just the mere idea of it. Harry’s chest blooms with hope and blissful expectation that come with not having to face this all alone. He makes a mental note to ask or hint about that to Zayn sometime soon. 

Of course, he would not force a coming-out (if Zayn really does share the same feathers as him), but partaking that experience with one of his closest friends appeared promising to Harry. So with a tiny tiny smile on his lips, he holds on to that flit of rainbow for the meantime, tucking it into his pocket full of secrets. 

Niall cuts the flow of his thoughts when he stands up, stretching his arms over his head and announcing that he’d be retiring for the night. When he's finally out of sight, Harry feels fatigue wash over him, sudden and inevitable despite his nap.

It’s like the day had finally sunk in—the games they’d played, the conversations, stressing about the little peashooter, just everything. It weighs him down like an anchor to a ship to the point that all he can think about is sleep sleep sleep. 

So, he rises from his chair and bids the other two goodnight as well, shoulders slumped as he drags his feet across the deck and towards the cabins. He blinks slowly, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the way. 

Louis is still lying on the futon, hands clasped under his cheek and snoring lightly. Harry notices the way he’s curled up into a ball, probably cold from the night. It must be around fifty-something degrees out here. And so, despite his better judgment, he makes his way over to Louis with the intention of waking him.

With a tap on the shoulder, he whispers Louis’ name, only to get shifting and a moan of irritation.

“Lou,” he tries again, his voice low but is now louder than his previous rasp. He lightly shakes Louis’ shoulder.

To his surprise, Louis just swats his hand away, still half asleep, before curling more into himself, frown line appearing between his eyebrows. As endearing as it is to see, Harry is dead tired, and right now, he would love nothing more than to lay on a soft bed and have the covers cocooning him—a caterpillar with a tendency to put himself in (what is “potentially”) harm’s way by waking a peashooter.

“Lou, come on,” he urges, a bit louder now and paired with a nudge on Louis’ shoulder done with a bit more force, “it’s cold out here. You’ll freeze.”

Louis makes a sound—something between a grunt and a murmur before swinging his legs over the edge of the futon. He lands on flat feet, drowsy eyes staring up at Harry. He lets out a yawn just as Harry jerks his head in the direction of the cabins. Louis blinks sleepily, hair mussed up and flying in all directions as he turns and lazily walks towards the rooms.

Harry follows closely, his tote and the paper bag in his hands, feeling even more tired at seeing Louis’ knackered state. They trudge past a long hallway with Harry steering him when he strays or is about to collide with a wall. He curses internally, torn between laughing and tucking Louis into his side to stop him from wandering. 

He’s too drained for this, yet the sight of Louis’ half-closed eyes and stumbling feet makes his heart thrum in a completely non-platonic fashion.

They make their way down the stairs, both holding onto the banister for guidance. Louis is in front now, heavy steps thumping on the burgundy carpet flooring. Harry sets his eyes on him when he turns his head slightly to the side, enough to look at Harry from his peripherals.

“Watch your step.”

It was barely a whisper, uttered so faintly that for a moment, Harry thinks it might just be his fatigue causing him to hallucinate things. Except, Louis slows his movements, causing Harry to decelerate his as well, the flat of their feet landing firmly on the floor, one step after another.

The pink that crowds Harry’s cheeks and ears makes him thankful that Louis’ back is facing him. Simultaneously, the fluttering in his stomach returns, strong, powerful and very telling of the effect three simple words from Louis can do to him.

It’s not long before they reach the rooms—another long hallway with too many doors on either side of the walls.

“Which one’s mine?” Louis asks him, voice groggy from sleep.

It takes Harry a beat before answering, too lost in the way Louis had puffed his cheeks up for no apparent reason. “Whichever you pick,” he answers, handing the paper bag to him. The small smile on Harry’s lips becomes more difficult to conceal when Louis ignores his outstretched hand. Still stubborn.

“This one then.”

Louis moves towards the door nearest to him, hand gripping the handle loosely, and Harry doesn’t know why or what came over him, but the words are out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I’ll be next door,” he informs a little too loudly, the sound vibrating off of the surfaces.

Louis turns to look at him, pausing for a good three seconds before nodding and muttering, “Have a good night, Kermy.”

The nickname surprises Harry, making him chuckle lowly. He says it back, waiting for Louis to get inside his room and shut the door before he heads to the one adjacent. 

The light automatically switches on when he enters, illuminating the space with a soft warm glow. He walks past the furniture, past the attractive king-sized bed, and straight into the bathroom, eager to do his business and prepare for bed. 

He forces himself to do quick work of washing his face, brushing his teeth, and jumping into the shower to rinse himself of sea water, his movements currently the only sources of sound in the too-empty suite. When he finishes with everything, he takes a change of clothes from his tote and shrugs them on.

What welcomes him as he steps out of the bathroom is a tiny digital glowing clock mounted on the wall opposite the bed, the time reading _11:06 p.m._

Despite the late hour, a little life had been breathed back into him, thanks to his routine—not exactly enough to make him want to forego rest, but an adequate amount that helps him notice the light pitter-patter of rain against the balcony glass. 

Harry claps twice to surround himself in darkness before tucking himself under the covers, the sound outside acting as the night’s lullaby. 

He expects to be out quick, what with the day’s exhaustion bearing down on him, but minutes pass and he instead feels the sleep leave his body. The worst, he thinks in frustration. Not only that, the weather seems to be sharing his mood as well, actual thunder entering his hearing as it starts to actually pour. 

He turns to his side, lips thinned as he faces the balcony and watches the water trickle down the glass. The recessed lights from outside casts shadows of rapidly falling droplets into the pitch dark room. Harry focuses on the strange sense of solace it gives, almost therapeutic, yet his mind just can’t help but wander off.

A countdown begins inside his head. 

There’s approximately eight hours left until they have to return to Little Rock. Harry couldn’t help but snicker to himself—Louis had spent almost half that just on his back, dozing off like the sleepyhead he is. The thought of him makes Harry snuggle deeper into the sheets, vividly remembering the look of Louis’ smile and the sound of his laughter scattered throughout the day.

There was their moment in the car on the way here, also when they’d played chicken fight, another when he’d pushed Liam into the indoor swimming pool during the tour of the yacht, and the last one had been when they’d tried fishing—when Zayn’s hook had snagged an old, beat down hat which had greatly disappointed him (much to Louis’ entertainment). 

He’d mostly been loud, especially when the alcohol had started to kick in. It’s like an animal within him had been unleashed. He’d playfully bantered with everyone but Harry over the smallest things like fucking shampoo, scents, the best complementary colors, even choosing between boxers and briefs.

 _At least he’d felt free_ , Harry reckons, grinning into the covers. 

The heavy knocking on the door breaks his train of thought. He jerks, wondering who it could possibly be, considering he’d locked it to let it be known this specific room is occupied.

He chooses to ignore it, deeming that whoever it was would just move on their merry little way if no one answers, but before he could resume his interrupted thoughts, the knocking starts again. With a deep and long sigh, he gets on his feet and pads over to answer the door.

He’s halfway there when Louis’ familiar voice wafts through the wood.

“Open up,” he demands, loud enough to wake the neighboring rooms.

A sudden gush of warmth and fond washes over Harry at the promise of Louis’ presence, his previous irritation evaporating. It doesn’t even dawn on him that he’d increased his pace, eager to see the other boy—at least not until the last minute, and so when he does realize, he captures his bottom lip between his teeth for a pretentious air of nonchalance before swinging the door open with his heart pounding in his chest. 

The sight of Louis’ bare chest and damp hair welcomes him. And immediately, he knows why Louis had been knocking on his door at this wee hour.

“I’m going to take a wild guess,” Harry starts with the conscious effort of keeping the smile off of his face. He squints his eyes instead. “You like the airconditioning so much you don’t need a shirt on?”

Louis lightly pushes past him. “Fuck off.”

Harry breaks into a laugh when he hears the soft undertone despite the vulgar words. He follows Louis into the room, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, and just watching the other look around. “Or… hold on, did you want to switch rooms?”

Louis straightens and spins on his heel to face Harry, a no-bullshit expression on his face. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“What is this?” Louis asks rhetorically before continuing, “Blink twice if you’re being sarcastic?” He rolls his eyes in exasperation, and when Harry remains still and unhelpful, he continues his search for paper bag, strangely slow in his movements, almost as if taking his time.

It’s odd, considering it truly was cold outside _and_ inside the rooms and Louis is dressed only in his denim shorts. He must be freezing, especially if he’s fresh out of the shower, but then why does it seem like he’s not as concerned as he should be?

Harry takes pity when he sees Louis lightly and casually run his palm down his arm, shivering the tiniest bit. 

“It’s in there,” Harry relents, pointing to the bathroom.

Louis wordlessly heads inside. He switches the lights on, and Harry is pleasantly amused when he doesn’t just pluck stuff out of the bag, but instead closes the door behind him, the click of the lock slicing through the silence.

He chuckles to himself at the realization that Louis had just impulsively decided to get changed in his bathroom rather than his own. He plants his bum down the edge of the bed as he waits for Louis to finish, eyes trained on the window and watching the rain still pouring outside.

Thunder reverberates through the suite, preceded by a faraway flash of lightning. On the plus side, the waves aren’t crazy despite the skies threatening to go berserk, thank heavens for that.

Harry passes the time by rubbing his sock-clad feet together, fingers absently playing with the edge of the duvet.

Louis emerges minutes later—(does it really take him that long to change?)—with new clothes on him: a new pair of shorts and a plain forest green jersey shirt with thick, vertical black stripes and the words ‘dirty player’ scrawled in a playful cursive font across the front. 

It had been an amusing little thing for Harry at the time of purchase, like an intrapersonal inside joke. It’s fun and quirky, and the second he saw that hanging from the rack, he’d made sure to stack it up along with the other ones.

Of course, he couldn’t help the flashbacks that dashed inside his head then—of fridge water and hard tackles. The thought alone brings a corner of his lips up. 

“I’m parched,” Louis announces so suddenly, the same way a child does to low-key demand the adult to do or buy something. Harry does not need to be told twice.

He gets up and heads over to the mini fridge at the far corner, scanning the contents when he finally takes a peek inside. “Energy drink? Water? OJ?”

“No sweet tea?”

Louis asks him, absently toying on the hem of his shirt with a single knee propped up on the bed. Harry looks back inside to double check before shaking his head.

“Demanding little thing, aren’t you?” He mutters fondly when he sees the frown painted on Louis’ face. “We can call for the kitchen staff, if you want?”

“No, no, I’ll just…” Louis trails off, his expression sporting genuine disappointment as he plants the other foot on the ground, turning to leave. Harry racks his mind for something to make up for the letdown. 

“In the mood to raid the pantry?” His question-slash-invitation makes Louis face him again, hopeful eyes shining. So he adds, “I’m feeling pretty hungry myself. Could use a light snack before snoozing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs, putting his flip flops on, “one sec.”

He pulls the closet door open, fishing one plum robe and handing it over to Louis before taking one for himself and slipping it on. Warmth. They finish almost at the same time, a knot around their middle securing the material.

It was a pair—a him and her robe—and the her looks small on Louis, the hem reaching three inches above his knee, yet despite the fit, it looks comfortable, warm, and cozy. Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t find Louis sinfully attractive in it. 

He shakes the thought away from his head, leading the way instead with Louis in tow. They fall into a comfortable silence on the way to the kitchen, the sound of the loud thunder and rain floating in and out of their hearing.

Harry knows where to head into, and Louis must have already realized this, because the second they arrive, he lifts himself onto the stainless counter and starts swinging his legs, almost like he’s patiently waiting to be served.

Harry tuts, more in mirth than in actual disapproval as he rummages through the shelves, picking out boxes and packs of crisps he thinks Louis would like, as well as a box of his beloved sweet tea. Gathering all the food in his arms, he walks back towards Louis with a waddle to his steps, chin hooked over a box of cereal.

He sets them down, some clattering and clunking when they hit the stainless surface. Harry flinches before letting out a short chuckle. He scans the mess before plucking the sweet tea from the bunch, brandishing it in front of Louis.

Louis tries to snatch it from him but fails. 

“You want this?” Harry taunts, and a smile escapes him when he sees the grumpy pout on Louis’ lips. He gestures to the pile of food. “Help me bring these to my room.”

Louis hops down. “You’re being a dick. I just want my tea.”

“Well,” Harry says with a shrug, “we never really did nice, didn’t we?” He takes the thermos from the corner, twisting the lid to see if its content is hot enough. When he sees the steam rise up, he closes the lid back. “How do you take it?”

“As is.”

Harry nods, taking a teacup from the drawer and taking some of the food remaining on the counter. He and Louis make their way back, a tad slower in pace.

They halt just as they turn the corner, bodies almost colliding against a woman in sleeping clothes. The look on her face was something out of pure surprise. Then her eyes dart to Harry and Louis’ arms and the insane amount of food they’ve had cradled. 

Harry doesn’t know why—doesn’t even know what had triggered it—but he and Louis share a look and this understanding flows between them, and Louis just _sprints_ , leaving a trail of sweets and snacks in his wake. Harry follows immediately, long legs carrying him away, on Louis’ tail as they speed into the hallway, leaping over tumbling packets. 

They head straight into his room, gasping and heaving as they let the goods drop to the floor and catch their breaths. Harry sets the thermos and cup down carefully.

“Why did you run?” Harry asks breathlessly, palms on his knees as he bends over to breathe better.

Louis is silent for a moment, then he bursts into a little laugh that makes Harry’s insides whirl around each other. “I don’t know.”

Harry couldn’t help but giggle too. “I ran for nothing?” 

“You ran for nothing.”

The confirmation makes Harry laugh harder, his heart still pounding thanks to the late-night cardio. To his surprise, Louis joins him still, eyes crinkling in the corners and whole face lit up like Christmas morning. Harry was sure the breathlessness that came right then had nothing to do with running in the corridors.

He sits in front of Louis by the balcony’s glass doors, the rain still pouring outside with occasional bursts of thunder. The lights are off, making the glowing clock appear more bold in the darkness.

_12:11 a.m._

Harry rips a bag of crisps open, then he reaches over to Louis, seated on the floor just across him to hand him his tea-making essentials. The boy accepts it, starts preparing his drink while Harry munches despite not really feeling like eating, only wanting to provide Louis some company.

Lightning flashes in the distance, and Harry had expected the thunder to come not long after, so that had prepared him for the deafening crack. Not Louis though, and when it does come, Louis visibly winces, his trajectory missing the mug for a second before he regains focus.

“You don’t like thunder?” 

Louis continues pouring into the ceramic, the tea bag beginning to float as the water level rises. “Loud noises in general,” he answers quietly, the steaming cup with a huge sailing ship design now enveloped by his fingers. 

Harry refrains from chewing the crisps, resorting to suck the brittleness out of them instead. Of course, Louis notices, and the chuckle that erupts from him is low and telling of his amusement.

“I think I can handle a crunch or two.”

Only then does Harry resume chewing, a playful smirk making its way to his mouth. He nudges the crisps towards Louis in silent invitation which Louis obliges, fishing few out of the bag.

“So…” Harry begins, “the weather?” 

A corner of Louis’ mouth quirks up. “You are a terrible conversationalist.”

“Well, that’s because I’m talking to you.”

“Excuse you, curly,” Louis snickers, right knee pressed against his chest now and the other flat on the floor. “I am phenomenal at conversation.” The snort that escapes Harry makes Louis roll his eyes. “Easy there, Peppa.”

Harry laughs fully now, dimple popping out of his cheek as he watches Louis sip from his teacup, light irritation on his expression. Louis catches the shake of Harry’s head.

“Choose then.”

“Choose what?”

“Something to talk about,” Louis replies, shrugging before he takes another sip.

Harry stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles as he leans back against the bed. He scratches his chin, thinking, eyes searching the room to look for something to talk about. A wall? No. Perhaps the rain? No, too easy. Airconditioning? Bland.

“Curtains.” Perfect.

“ _Curtains?_ ” Louis parrots, a tinge of disbelief marring his voice. When Harry nods with mirth in his gaze, Louis licks his lips, challenged but with a bit of apprehension on his expression. “What about curtains?”

There’s a silliness in Harry, wanting the conversation to be light and fun to make up for the tension that had wrapped around them that late afternoon (that he still does not know why). “The way they look, texture, thickness, how they—”

“I like curtains,” Louis interrupts, eyes facing straight ahead as he hugs his knees, cup already set down between them and empty.

Harry had stopped eating, undivided attention set on Louis as he tries to determine whether the other boy is serious about it or not. Louis is relaxed, face impassive as he follows the movement of the raindrops down against the glass. 

“You’re the first person I’ve heard say that,” Harry comments, mimicking Louis’ position, “I personally don’t like them.”

“Why?”

Suddenly it’s too quiet, and Harry swears he could hear his pulse pump in his ears. He regrets speaking up now that he begins struggling for words, and he considers that it’s also the fact that Louis is not pressuring him to answer—waiting instead, quiet and patient—that pushes him to swim into the deepest parts of his thoughts. 

Damn it.

Funny how the tables have turned. How this “ _exercise_ ” should’ve been to dissipate any of the existing discomfort Louis feels around him, yet he’s currently the one in the spotlight.

What’s even more strange is he doesn’t feel the tiniest bit of unease. Maybe it’s the oncoming dawn, the single digits below seven igniting a sense of vulnerability into him, as it does for others (or so he’s heard). Or maybe it’s Louis. Maybe it’s the way he’s just casually making tea again like Harry isn’t about to divulge something not even his closest pals know.

Harry swallows past the lump in his throat. “I don’t like things that hide,” he finally replies with a humorless chuckle, masking the way his voice dropped at the confession.

There goes light and fun. His eyes are cast down, pretentiously fascinated by the loops of thread protruding from the material. Ironic, isn’t it? To hate things that he is himself. There’s a distinct burn in Harry’s throat that makes his eyes well up, and he wishes it gone. Wishes he could push it down, relieve it, but it doesn’t go away.

Louis doesn’t speak for a moment, so Harry risks a peek. He’s unusually silent, his profile exposed by the artificial light highlighting his sharp features. 

Harry feels a small amount of envy slither its way into his heart. Seventeen, so young with beauty that belongs to a different era—of vintage cars and black and white films, of drive-in theaters, braces, and fedora hats. So young and mysterious, with a cement wall up high and a pocketful of secrets concealed behind it. 

“It hides,” Louis whispers to himself pensively, deep in his thought process.

Louis is hiding too, isn’t he? Beneath all the snarky remarks and the mocking he’d once showed, the dislike he’d showed at grandeur and the eat-the-rich attitude, he’d been hiding from Harry—continues to despite his slow unraveling. A constant game of back and forth, of push and pull that should’ve made Harry want to step back, but doesn’t. 

His eyes are unashamedly fixed on Louis now, a knot in his stomach forming. _What don’t you want me to see, Louis? Is it as bad as the secrets I hide under my pillows? Will you ever let me see you?_

The burn becomes stronger than ever so he averts his gaze to keep himself at bay, biting down on his lip hard enough to cause pain, because that he could endure. He balls his hands into fists to stop their slight tremble.

“It does hide,” Louis breaks the silence again, voice steady, “but it also protects, doesn’t it?”

“Protect?”

Louis hums, the pause in their dialogue telling of Louis’ actions. Like Harry had predicted, Louis had shifted his position, legs now folded sideways with knees pointing at Harry as he drinks from his second cup, one elbow propped up on the bed.

“Some aren’t lucky enough to find something that protects them when they’re hiding,” Louis replies, distant, as if remembering something vague. He tenses for a moment before smiling wryly. “Some aren’t lucky enough to find somewhere to hide at all.”

There’s a sharp pain that spreads through Harry’s stomach, twisting and distorting his insides, the implication of Louis’ response igniting an unsteady rhythm into his intake of breath. He’s rendered speechless, robbed of all the words as his mind conjures up an image of a young Louis cowering in fear from something… from _someone_ , with nowhere to hide, nowhere to turn to.

A little boy in dire need of someone to save him from the monster lurking in the dark.

No child should ever be subjected to that. No one should be forced to foster fear inside their hearts and minds at such a young age. And the thought of Louis going through something as terrifying knocks the air right out of his chest.

His glassy eyes meet Louis’, afraid to ask, desperate to know, but he holds himself back. Louis will speak when he’s ready. Harry reckons it might never happen, but he tells himself he’s willing to wait—however long it takes. So he simply nods.

Then without thinking twice about it, he slowly reaches over, his knuckles lightly rubbing Louis’ elbow in a show of support and solace, sure of the light reflecting on the unshed tears in his eyes.

Louis blinks rapidly, using the excuse of wrapping both hands around the cup to evade Harry’s touch. And Harry knows—he knows it’s the back and forth again, the push and pull, and he lets it slide, because he also knows it had taken a lot for Louis to hint about such a thing. 

Louis snickers then, a desperate attempt to lift the heavy air from the room. “A lot are fucking terrible though. Ugly pieces with horrible eyelets—do you know those things?” Louis asks, and before Harry could answer, he continues, “Really couldn’t stand those things. Like little holes for worms to peek out of.”

Harry smiles indulgently, moving his hand back to his lap. “Little? Oh, like you?”

That was all it took to spark the banter Harry had been missing most of the day. And as Louis passionately defends himself against _size fucking discrimination_ (as he so eloquently put it), Harry watches him, entranced and bewitched at the sunshine that is Louis, the lighthouse in the stormy seas. 

Louis is relentless, unwavering and determined to prove his point, eyes widening and lips thinning as he goes on his tirade. Try as Harry may, he is simply unable to look away from the endearing sight.

To be fair, for what reason would he have to?


End file.
